


Darling is the Word of a Desperate Man

by woefulPotatoes



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sherlock Holmes ACD, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Descriptions of gore, Hubert Being Hubert, Implied Patricide/Matricide, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Sesquipedalian Loquaciousness, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Tea with the Lads, Three Houses though the lens of Sherlock Holmes while channeling Hannibal, if that's your kind of thing, references to drowning, there are magical elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:46:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 84,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23553256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woefulPotatoes/pseuds/woefulPotatoes
Summary: As circumstance would have it, I passed Von Aegir on my way back to the manor, still out on a ride it seemed, head to his chest and deep in thought, the tail of his crimson cloak like a veil behind him as his horse navigated the road at a leisurely pace. I quickened to meet him.“Mr. Von Aegir,” I called.He bolted upright in his seat, and turned in my direction.“You should be more mindful when out alone, or the beast will come calling,” I chastised.“I am not alone,” he pat the side of his horse’s neck, “Dorte is with me. But you did not come to me with niceties, did you. What is it you want.”
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 50
Kudos: 54





	1. The Beast of Drothin

I stood by the tall window of the sitting room, looking over an unsigned letter I had just received from the landlady. By the quality of the paper and the cut of each letter upon it, I surmised the sender to be a particular associate by the name of Volkhard Arundel, and just as this thought left my mind, I spied the very man stalking up the street, his brougham left waiting on the kerb.

Presently I heard footsteps upon the stair, and foregoing a knock, in strode a stately middle-aged man sporting a black topcoat buttoned tightly against the unseasonably cold autumn chill. A strong oak cane passed between his gloved hands in agitation. His face was arguably handsome, framed by a trim narrow beard, and dark brown hair pulled back from his forehead. His sharp eyes focused on me at once.

“What pleasure do I owe this visit, Lord Arundel?”

“Have you read the letter?”

“Of course. Though I fail to grasp the attempt at discretion implied by your anonymous message with your carriage parked very plainly outside my door.”

“To instill within you the gravity of this summons,” and here he paused, considering his words. “We have both taken pains to mask our discontent with each other, and I am willing to move forward in civility, but that does not fall solely to me.”

“There has ever been scarce trust between us, and I take comfort in that fact.”

“Hmph.” He took a deliberate moment to pull a golden timepiece from the breast of his coat, scowling then snapping it closed again. I suppressed a sigh, instead folding my hands behind my back patiently. “You will soon be contacted by a man by the name of Ferdinand Von Aegir.”

“No relation to the late Minister Von Aegir, I hope?”

Arundel continued speaking as though he had not heard me, maintaining his gaze upon me as he rounded the room, “He will request your services in regards to the death of his father. You will accept.”

“I have been indisposed by an ongoing case concerning a murder and a very illustrious client, the details of which I am sure you are intimately aware, and which I intend to resolve within the coming weeks; I would be willing to offer my services pending its conclusion.”

“Arrangements have already been made for Bergliez to conclude the matter. Be glad: all of the glory and none of the work. Good evening, Mr. Vestra.”

“Yes,” I muttered dispassionately, “Good evening.”

With this abrupt farewell, he was out the door and swiftly away down the street and out of view.

I suffered in idleness for several days before I received the letter from my intended client. I remarked at the ostentatious and elegant hand, in contrast to the thin paper, the edges of which were excessively worn given the state of the envelope it was in. After this quick examination, the envelope and its contents were committed to the flames dwindling in the fireplace. That very evening, I was comfortably seated on the 5.45 to Drothin.

By the time I arrived at the Von Aegir residence, only the barest hint of the sun could be seen past the peaks of the Merceus Mountains, and the foreboding shadow of the surrounding forest hemmed in the warm light radiating from the manor’s windows. I rapped a glove hand against the significant front door, to which a short man of advanced years answered, his face awash with confusion at my initial appearance, and then guarded relief.

“Mr. Vestra, I assume. We were not expecting you so soon, or at all, in fact. The young master did not tell us whether you had even accepted his request.”

“I felt confident in Mr. Von Aegir’s generosity enough that I assumed my impropriety might be overlooked with the swift conclusion of this formidable affair.”

“It has gone on for far too long. The young master is only recently returned, and already this dreadful beast has run him ragged,” he said as he ushered me in.

“He has been abroad?”

“Perhaps. I could not tell you, but as far as I am aware, he has been living in the city, studying medicine.”

“He does not visit often.”

“No, sir, not in recent years. I am sure he is very busy. He has always been a very vigorous man. That has not changed from when he was a boy, tumbling with the best of them.”

I took a quick scan of the spacious entrance hall: an earth-toned stone flooring, complimenting the dark wood wainscotting of the walls; a grand staircase dominating the space, and on the far wall, portraits of ancestors hanging solemnly. It was an impressive building in its time, and even now it carried an air of gravitas, but it showed its neglect heavily. In every spider web that hovered defiantly in distant corners, in every flake of wood on the banister, in each chip of the stone floor, there was only the guise of dedication.

I put down my duffel and doffed my mantle, and the man reached out a hand expectantly.

“That is alright. I will carry it with me.”

“Very good, sir.”

As I spoke with the old man, he led me to a lavish sitting room, where I was surprised to find an officer waiting patiently upon the divan across from where we stood. He was a short man, an energetic and athletic build, with light, fly-away hair.

“Mr. Vestra, this is Officer Bergliez. If you are not too disinclined to keep each other company for a while, I shall excuse myself to prepare the good sir’s rooms for to-night.”

“Mr. Vestra, hello!”, chirped the policeman.

“Have we been previously acquainted?”

“Oh, no, but a cousin has told me of you. Randolph Bergliez?”

“He has, has he?” I leered, nostrils flaring, but the officer went on unimpeded by my ire.

“I don’t suppose you’ve met before, but he told me of some of the cases you’ve solved – the one concerning the Lion’s Mane – to think such a creature could appear so unassuming. How horrific!”

“The tales of my exploits are greatly exaggerated – What can you tell me of this case involving the Von Aegirs, and what your business is here to-night.”

“Well. Mr. Toller said he heard a baying of the hound around sunset, and he was very concerned it might try to come near to the house. I came just as reassurance.”

“This beast has been quiet since the attack of Duke Von Aegir?”

“Oh yes, quiet as a peep. We were hoping that it might have met some sort of end without our intervention, but more likely that it had gone off to hunt somewhere else.”

“If you could give me the details of the case here and spare me a trip to the constabulary, I would be appreciative.”

“I don’t mind a bit, sir,” and here he pulled out a notebook, and read out in an authoritative voice:

“It was the 24th of the Verdant Moon, we were called to the Von Aegir residence and informed that the master of the house, Duke Ludwig Von Aegir had been brutally attacked by what appeared to be a large animal on the moor during the night. Mrs. Minerva Toller, who would routinely bring up the duke’s breakfast, became concerned after finding his rooms empty that morning. Subsequent searching provided no sign of him within the house. Later in the day a body was discovered approximately two miles from the Von Aegir manor by Miss Leonie Pinelli, and confirmed by the members of the house to be Von Aegir by the clothes he wore.”

“Only his clothes? The body was mutilated beyond recognition?”

“Yes, sir,” he said with a grimace. “Miss Pinelli and the neighbours were questioned, as well as a few others, but this line of inquiry was quickly dismissed when we were made aware of a man who had visited the duke recently, a Mr. Godfrey Bannister. We learned from the Tollers that he had occasion at the Von Aegir household within the past few moons to discuss something with Duke Von Aegir, though they admitted having no knowledge as to what. Bannister was not familiar to the Tollers or within the town, but made himself known by his most intimidating Kleiman mastiff. He was apprehended on the 28th fleeing Drothin towards Fort Merceus, and surely awaits a guilty verdict.”

“Surely?”

“It was revealed that the finances of the Von Aegir household had become most dire in the past years, and that Bannister was a well known money lender in his native city. It seems clear to me who the culprit is.”

“How did Von Aegir come to his misfortune?”

“He relied heavily on certain investments that ran aground rather spectacularly, excuse me if I can’t give you specifics. Did Mr. Von Aegir request you here because he has doubts about the culpability of Mr. Bannister?”

“I did not come here to absolve anyone of sin, but rather to ensure it; whether that person is Bannister or someone else, I have yet to resolve.”

I awoke to the grey light of an autumn dawn, rubbing the sleep from my tired eyes. I lay there a moment, gathering myself up, black tendrils still prodding at the edges of my unconsciousness. I swung out of bed, dressed swiftly, and made my way downstairs, brown paper bag secure in one hand. I helped myself to the kitchen and facilities, and watched the sun slowly rise over the hills as my coffee steeped.

“Oh! Mr. Vestra, I didn’t hear you come down,” exclaimed a feminine voice behind me, “You must let me do that. You’re a guest here.”

A stout old woman shuffled in to the kitchen, her shoulders straight as a board, hair pulled to a careless bun at the back of her head. She wore a crisply ironed frock and worn white apron from which hung an assortment of cloths. Her posture implied a stern upbringing, one that had failed to completely extend to her manner of speech.

“I must insist on supplying my own drink,” I drawled. “In any case, the deed is done.”

“Dear me,” Mrs. Toller muttered to herself as she procured a baking pan from the cupboard, and then a delicate ceramic teacup, which she firmly placed on the counter by my elbow, “Could I make you up anything, dear?”

“I have little interest in food – I would much prefer to ask you a question,” I said, plucking the teacup from the counter, and pouring out my brew.

“Do not hesitate. The faster this dreadful ordeal can be settled, the better. But I don’t know how much more I could tell you that I haven’t already told the police.”

“I take it that the duke was a very private man; I suppose it would not be difficult to name each person that has had occasion to cross the threshold in the recent months.”

“Four in all, in fact. He used to be surrounded by all sorts. The parties and fundraisers, constantly coming and going from the city.”

“Yes, and these four recent guests, who were they?”

“Mr. Bannister, of course, was back and forth for months. Charisma like no one else, and he knew it. Carried it about like a flag, boisterous as a boxer. I imagine he’s sobered up since I last saw him. And then there was Miss Irene St. Peters. She and the duke were fast friends years ago – almost a part of the family – but after her sister Elia went missing and could not be found, she took to the news very poorly. Became a bit of a misanthrope. Drove away most of her friends in the process, Duke Von Aegir included. I was completely taken when, one day I answered the door, and there she stood, as though no time had passed at all. She was extremely animated, insisted on speaking with the duke. I imagine that they had much to catch up on.”

“How many visits did she make after that?”

“One or two at the most. I was expecting them to go back to their old ways, but I saw no more of her at the manor after that.”

“How did the lady of the house take to Miss St. Peters?”

“Extremely well,” she pronounced, before lowering her voice to a low even pitch, “Though whether it was because the duke deserved being trusted, or that the lady did not care either way, I could not tell you.”

I took a sip from my cup, mulling over Mrs. Toller’s words. By this point she had begun vigorously mixing ingredients in a wooden bowl.

“And what of the other two?” I asked.

“I’m afraid I don't remember much of them. I never chanced to hear their names, both very private themselves. One was a tall man with a dark air about him, and strikingly long hair. The other was a politician from Enbarr – mousy blond, large eyes, and a pigeon-toed walk – plying for favour with the other ministers, I thought.

“That is all you recall of them?”

“That and nothing more.”

“Did the police ever see fit to question the others?”

“I imagine that the minister was identified, but not the other man; and Miss St. Peters has been away visiting family since a week before everything.”

“How wonderfully convenient. I must ask you then, about the state and location that the duke’s body was found. How do you suppose Duke Von Aegir could be compelled to visit the moors at night?”

“Very easily. He was inclined towards solitary walks ever since the duchess-,” and here she broke off. “Well, you might have wondered what her feelings were in this grotesque affair?”

“I suppose. Were she to make herself available, I would speak with her as well.”

“I’m afraid that is not possible, however, for the duchess has been… missing, for some time.”

“You hesitate.”

“I do. The duke has always maintained that she had run away somewhere but – I have my doubts. I have my doubts whenever I see remains of some animal on the moor, but I don't doubt the beast. I might have wondered if he wasn’t hoping to meet with it, in his heart, so that he could see his wife again. Well, it seems he’s had his wish granted.”

“This beast – how much stock do the locals put in it?”

“Little,” she answered very quickly, now turning the dough she had made out onto the counter, “until recently of course. It was nothing more than a fairy tale, to keep the children in at night. Are you sure you don’t need anything to eat?”

I flashed a dark grin, placing my empty cup beside the carafe.

“Is it just you and your husband here, Mrs. Toller? It is a sizeable property for any two people to attend to, particularly two people of advancing years.”

“I’m sure you think so, dear, but I have served in this house from the time the duke was a boy, and I have never failed in my duties. And to answer whether it is just myself and my husband, no. There is one other, Marianne Edmund. She is the head groom. She joined us recently – when the young master left for the city.”

“Then I shall have to speak with her. And Mr. Toller?”

“Out in the town. He should be back by late afternoon.”

“Thank you for this enlightening conversation,” I spoke, as I strode out the scullery door, hearing a faint _Dear me_ just as it rattled shut.

The manor was situated over several acres within a sparse forest that quickly subsided into the low and scraggly vegetation of the moor. Past this and down in the valley, the town of Drothin could be seen. Like ants, the dark specks of people milled about, undertaking their morning routine. On the horizon, the Merceus Mountains stood, peaks hazy with mist.

I wandered the edge of the property, where the thin, bone-white trees began in earnest, peering into the depths of the forest. I found it preternaturally still, nary the chirp of a bird. Even with the warm autumn light illuminating my path, I felt a deep sense of unease. I passed a worn wooden sign, painted words faded beyond recognition, that marked the beginning of a footpath into the trees. At one point two horses could have walked astride it, but neglect had narrowed it down to one. It was nearing noon by the time I made my way towards the stables. By chance, Edmund was there, engrossed in brushing down one of the horses.

She wore a faded blue frock and a heavy shawl about her shoulders tied loosely at the neck, her long hair braided into a crown about her head. As I neared, her soft and rounded features became apparent, and I could see sombre brown eyes that held a depth of understanding and grace.

“Miss Edmund, I assume.”

She jumped a half foot in the air at the sound of my voice, but nevertheless turned to me carefully and with purpose as she let out a quiet sound half-way between a sob and a sigh.

“Hello, and who are you, sir?” she said in a tremulous voice.

“Hubert Von Vestra; I was hired to investigate the murder of the duke. Would you be against a quick interview?”

“I suppose….”

“How long have you been in the employ of the Von Aegirs?”

“About two years… by the Red Wolf Moon it will be two years, yes.”

“And you are not a native of Drothin?”

“No, I came to this area on account of a distant relative who had left property to me nearby the town many years ago. I finally determined on moving to the countryside, and was quickly hired by Duke Von Aegir.”

“Running from something perhaps?”

“N-No. I, I have a nervous constitution, and I long felt that the excitement of the city was not good for my health. My only intentions were for a change of pace when I left Fort Merceus.”

“What persuaded you to find work here, specifically?”

“Mr. Von Aegir did, actually. I was acquainted with him, though we were not very close. One day, he was lamenting over how he could not find someone suitable to take over his horses, as he was soon away to school in the city, when, with a grand gesture, he pleaded for my assistance. I was otherwise unengaged at the time, and had no reason to refuse.”

“You find it agreeable here.”

“Yes, though for a while I have worried that my time here was coming to a close.”

“With the duke dead, I would imagine so.”

“I mean before, before then. You might have wondered why the stables are so spacious when the duke owned only three horses. That is because, even two years ago, there were upwards of twenty, but so many had gone missing in the night, a-and carcasses had appeared during the day-time, that there are so few now. They were Mr. Von Aegir’s horses, mainly, and the duke elected not to purchase replacements in his son’s absence,” she turned to look up at the horse with mournful eyes as she continued. “Evidently, he had also refrained from telling his son anything, and so when Mr. Von Aegir returned to the manor on the death of the duke, he also found that most of his horses had gone the same way. He was beside himself with anger. For a quarter of an hour, he would alternate between a mournful sound, and cursing the duke’s name up and down. He is still hot about it, though he likes to pretend otherwise.” She sighed deeply, turning her gaze to the ground. “This is not really a thing for me to say….”

“So say it.”

She turned her face back to me with a whip of her head, brown eyes severe and imperative, capitulating to my words as though a permission.

“There was not much love lost between father and son. No doubt Mr. Von Aegir welcomed his sojourn in the city as a means to put distance between him and Duke Von Aegir.”

This was little surprising to me: a coarse young man like Von Aegir desirous of freedom would not be peculiar, even less so with the mental strain of a missing mother and mourning father. Still, it remained a point of interest in my mind. As I mulled this over, I became occupied with a swift-moving figure over Edmund’s shoulder.

“Speak of the devil and he shall come.” She traced my gaze to where Ferdinand Von Aegir was riding over the grassy hill towards us, and I looked over her worried face. “Do not worry Miss Edmund; I’ll not impress upon him your little suspicions, as long as you do not impress upon mine.“

Von Aegir’s black horse came bounding over, making little sound on the short grass, picking up a small puff of dust in a sparse patch of green. The man riding upon it was one of princely appeal, clear, determined eyes set in a boyish face. His hair was cropped around the neck, orange forelock swept to one side. About robust shoulders hung a rich crimson cloak, and beneath it a navy morning-coat, leather belt cinched around his narrow waist.

“Good morning, Mr. Vestra!” boomed Von Aegir from atop his horse as he rounded upon us, then unseated with a flourish, “I apologise for not welcoming you in last night. I do not mean to make excuses of it but, as I was not expecting any guests, I took to an early bed. Did you find your rooms to be acceptable?”

“Dusty,” I replied with a sly smile, “but how could I complain?”

“Excuse me, sirs,” stammered Edmund, as she moved towards the far end of the stables, gently taking the chestnut thoroughbred she was brushing by the reins. Von Aegir’s wide smile faltered a moment as he saw the dark expression on her face, but quickly recovered before continuing.

“Have you begun the investigation already? I admit I am curious about your methods. I know little about you, and I initially hesitated in calling for your services, but you came in such high regard, and, well, I wanted to see this thing done quickly, as opposed to not.”

“You did not find the local enforcement to be adequate.”

“I hate to say it,” he began slowly, frowning, “because I grew up in this town, and I have a childhood friend or two employed there, but _because_ I grew up in this town, I’ve seen first-hand, people who have gone missing and never were found again. They think it is that money lender, and he may very well have done the deed against my father, but there is something else here. Something far more evil.”

“You speak of the demonic beast from your fairy tails that lurks the moor – it is a common subject here it seems.”

“A person living here for any amount of time would know of the beast: A giant hound with razor claws and needle teeth, and a pelt of shining silver. It is said that it used to be a man, who, overcome with the loneliness of ten thousand days and nights alone, called out to the goddess to ease his suffering. She, in turn, transformed him into an unthinking beast, and he suffered no more.”

“A fascinating story,” I spoke dryly.

“Is it not? But that is all it is. My fears lie in something more material. There is, I think, some devious soul in Drothin who is not all as they appear; the beast is a convenient scapegoat for many an ill-gotten deed, and its name not difficult to invoke – and you must know, I do not take joy in malicious conjecture, but more than ever I feel a responsibility to act upon my feelings.”

“You have had much time to consider this, but you will not need wonder very much longer.”

“You have figured it out already?” he exclaimed.

“It is made clear to me,” I spoke darkly, “but there are some, insignificant particulars that must be addressed first.”

“And what are those?”

“Concerning your mother….”

“What relevance does that have to the case?” he floundered.

“It may or it may not. I cannot know if I do not ask,” I said, and here, that unabashed smile faded from his face.

“My mother disappeared nearly two years ago. I do not know whence or why. Surely the police or one of the servants would have told you already.”

“I prefer to hear it from you.”

Von Aegir fixed me with a piercing stare, amber eyes bright with emotion.

“Here it is then: My dearest mother, who I had known all my life as only the most loving and forthright woman, left her family under the cover of night with nary a warning or good-bye. Or at least I hope she left, and was not instead taken or – or something even more dreadful. The forest was searched, inquiries sent to nearby towns, every able body in Drothin on alert but knowing that there would be no sign of her, just like the others in decades past. Just as Elia St. Peters was not found. In any case, I have laid my hopes to rest that I should ever see her again.”

“With the way you go on, it’s clear that her departure affected you dearly.”

“Of course,” he retorted.

“And yet, when the duke passed, you seemed more concerned about your horses, from what I understand. Your puzzlement is palpable, so I will explain to you how I came to this knowledge,” here I paused to take in his visage reddening in embarrassment and anger. “Your staff are very obliging to any questions I have. Oddly so."

“They are merely intent on putting this ordeal behind them.”

“Truly? To me, it looks to be the loose-tongued sort who care very little for their master.”

“Are you implying that any of them had something to do with my father’s death? That I did?” he growled.

“Perhaps I am implying that your father was not the type of man to engender loyalty.”

“Enough. I will not stand for you insulting the dead, insulting good people that deserve only my respect and trust. I wondered if I would not regret asking you here, and not an hour knowing you, I already wish that I had not. Do you often return your clients’ generosity with insults? I have opened my home to you only to be made a mockery of.”

He looked about ready to come to blows, but then Edmund scurried over with all good intentions, and set herself between us to attempt to convince Von Aegir out of his state.

“Sir, this is not behaviour worthy of you,” she quivered.

He looked as though he were going to retort, but instead leapt up upon his horse, throwing over his shoulder at me an expression of detestation, a hardness in his eyes; and in that moment, he resembled to me, that mighty emperor Lycaon, at the height of his greatness. Snapping the reins, he was immediately galloping away and down the road to vanish into the trees.

“You do not really think that he killed the duke?”

“No, I do not.”

“Then why….”

“Perhaps it is an aspect of my method, and will aid in solving this case. Or perhaps, I see a grinning fool, and wish to put something else on his face.”

“You are dreadful,” she grimaced.

I laughed.

I took the long road into town on foot, passing several farms, verdant hills specked with grazing animals, fields of tall grasses slowly rolling like waves in the breeze. It was around two in the afternoon when I found myself in the town proper. I made my way towards the mortuary – a tiny stone building adjacent to the cemetery – where a lone man in police uniform stood loitering at the gate. I passed him in to the dim light of the building, and he followed silently behind, the door shutting with a snap. I looked to my left down the gloom of an empty hallway, lined with closed doors, and back towards the constable, expectant.

“This way, sir,” he said, passing me the coroner’s report.

I flipped swiftly through the sheaf of papers as we walked, the tapping of footsteps echoing through the narrow corridor. A morgue attendant ushered us through the second last door of the hall, in which a body lay on a metal table in the centre of the small room. I returned the report to the constable as I approached it.

The body had a balding pate, orange tufts of hair clinging feebly to the temples. He had been a wide man, but nearly a quarter of his weight had been torn or bitten off in the attack. His right arm was missing from the elbow down. Evidently, it had not been recovered. Had I not already known the circumstances of the body, I would be hard pressed to make any definitive identification. I stooped closely over it, assailed by the fetor of decaying flesh, and examined the wounds that the report had determined to be from a large dog, but appeared to be too long and thin – more like a long nail, than the taper of a tooth. The few clear bites that could be determined were massive, far larger than any dog I had seen before, certainly larger than a Kleiman mastiff.

“Who was the coroner in the investigation?”

“Umm,” the constable swept his eyes over the front page, “Cadogan Barker.”

“He should be relieved of his position. Immediately.”

I continued my examination of the body, making note of the several patterned gashes from claw marks about the groin and torso. It was difficult to be certain given the degree of damage, but one mark presented itself to me as quite singular, obscured by the blanket of torn flesh – a deep flat cut, like that of a large dagger, which suggested to me, a stab perpendicular to the torso, as opposed to the slashing motion of a claw. I straightened, and indicated to the attendant that I was done with my inspection.

“How is Bannister faring?” directing my question to the constable standing at attention by the door.

“He is quiet. He seems to have accepted his lot,” said the constable, following me out of the room. “Should I accompany you back to the station?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

I stalked back the way I came, momentarily blinded by the daylight as I pushed open the door and out onto the street. I intended to dip quickly into the post office before paying St. Peters’ a visit, but a vaguely familiar voice called out to me from across the room as I arrived.

“Mr. Toller,” I acquiesced, turning around.

“Mr. Vestra, good afternoon,” welcomed the old man, shuffling several papers and a brown manila envelope around a large cardboard box in his arms, “What brings you here?”

“I maintain contacts in the city, even during cases such as these.”

“Of course. You are a very busy man. I was much the same, you see; I spent my youth in Enbarr, and it was a _constant_ ,” punctuating the word with a nod of his head, “frantic thing. I am glad to have escaped it.”

“Only to become beholden to the whims of a beast?”

“Far more fearsome things lurk in the darkness of the city than these woods. But I’m sure you’re well aware of that, Mr Vestra,” he peered curiously, almost accusatory.

“It is somewhat unavoidable” I deflected,” as I regularly deal in criminals.”

“Of course, that is what I meant.” He shuffled the contents of his arms again, uncomfortably. “Will you be returning to the manor soon?”

“Relatively soon, yes,” I replied, and the manila folder slipped from atop the box Toller carried. He instinctively lurched to grab for it, teetering precariously with his package. He would have dropped it all, had I not set him to rights, a hand at the corner of the box and another grabbing the rest of his papers.

“Perhaps I could take something off your hands.”

“That would be improper of me, to ask something of a guest.”

“You are not asking, I am offering,” I reasoned.

“If,” he hesitated, “it would be no trouble to you – this package must be delivered to someone in town, but if you could take this mail to the manor, you would have my utmost thanks.”

I collected everything he held but the box, and Toller was soon on his way with a grateful nod of his head. I appealed to the office clerk for any of my own correspondence, and tucked everything away into the inside pocket of my black topcoat. Finally I headed in the direction of St. Peters’ house.

It was not far from the centre of town, but the abundance of greenery generated the impression of seclusion, and the high stone wall surrounding the entrance served to suppress the sounds coming from across the road. At the side, there was a workshop, sheltered by a low wooden overhang. An assortment of tools were assembled neatly atop a steel bench, and a number of metal contraptions were pushed into a corner. Evidently, the property had supported an orchard in some past iteration, as many trees scattered around were heavy with fruit. I knocked upon the front door, but no answer was forthcoming, and no light shone through the curtained window. I tried the handle, but it was firmly shut, and as I pulled my hand away, a red rust clung to my gloved hand. Determining that there was nothing else to be gained there, I brushed my hands together and walked in the direction of the station house.

Three policemen were huddled around a desk, heads forward and completely absorbed in their conversation. I caught merely fragments – a sighting of the beast, plans for a hunt – and then their murmurs were overpowered by the vigorous clamour of Caspar Bergliez.

“Mr. Vestra!” he exulted, rising from seemingly nowhere, “What brings you this way?”

“I need to speak with Godfrey Bannister.”

“Oh, that’s – hmm,” Bergliez faltered.

The chief of police quickly spotted us from the seat at his desk, and made over to where we stood, a thickset sure-footed man with the greying temple of a demanding occupation.

“So, detective, how is your quest faring? It must be a tricky one, seeing as how you already have the answer.”

“So you’ve heard of me. Good. We can bypass introductions and skip right to the crux of the situation. My trip here would benefit from an examination of Bannister – in fact, I have come expressly for this purpose, and if you would grant me this, I shall be out of your way promptly.”

He guffawed good-naturedly, and gestured down the hall.

“This thing is all but done; I would gladly have you speak with him, if only to reassure you of it.” He turned to Bergliez, “Constable, if you would show our guest the way.”

“Yes, sir. Right over here, Mr. Vestra.”

To his credit, he did manage nearly ten agitated steps before summoning a whirlwind of questions concerning my progress in the investigation, similar relevant dealings I had solved in the past based on his cousin’s second hand accounts, etcetera. I diverted him with a question of my own.

“In your inquiry, did a mysterious shadowed figure ever make an appearance?”

“Yes, one did, how did you know?” he asked. “Oh, but I suppose that’s a common occurrence in your line of work. Mrs. Sami De la Croix is well known for keeping odd hours, and came to the police the day after the murder to profess that she believed to have seen someone slinking towards Miss St. Peters’ residence during the night. Whoever it was moved in a loping or huddled fashion, and she was particularly concerned that it might be someone come to burgle the place while Miss St. Peters was away.”

“And the conclusion?”

“No evidence of forced entry. It was a dreadful storm at the time – and who wouldn’t be huddled up against a biting wind and rain? Miss St. Peters was contacted and made aware of the situation, but expressed little interest.”

“Someone spoke with her personally?”

“Actually it was a family member who promised to relay the information.”

“And the constabulary was satisfied with that?”

“There was a murder going on, Mr. Vestra. We all here in Drothin care for each other; there’s no need to steal when a neighbour would give freely.” Bergliez stopped abruptly before a closed door. “Now, what are you hoping to hear from Mr. Bannister?”

“A confession.”

“That will be very difficult seeing he’s been refusing to speak with anyone here lately.”

“Thankfully, I do not count myself as one of your number.”

He opened the door to a small room with stone walls, rough but clean, with only two cells along the back wall. The left was empty, but in the right, huddled over a worn wooden bench, was Bannister. He looked briefly up as we entered the room but otherwise did not acknowledge our presence. Bergliez waited by the door while I neared the metal bars.

“Well, well, Mr. Bannister, you look very comfortable. How is the food? Ghastly or merely distressing? Nothing you are unaccustomed to, I take it.”

He showed no sign of movement.

“I know you did not kill Duke Von Aegir. I cannot speak for anything else, of course, in your illustrious career, but of this, you are undoubtedly innocent,” I said, directing my words to the top of his head.

His back straightened slightly, and he canted his ear towards me. He was listening.

“Where were you, the night of the duke’s death?”

Bannister scoffed but finally looked at me, then idly to the wall.

“Who’s this trickster, then. The good sergeant enlisting aristocrats to do his job for him?”

“No. I am here, to dangle enticingly, your route to freedom.”

“Ha. Aren’t you a journalist? Looking for some tragic spectacle to sell to the papers. Satiate all of our... _morbid affectations with the grotesque_ ,” he enunciated, rolling his eyes, “There’s a headline for you.”

He was quite cavalier for someone anticipating death; it could be that the threat of hanging unsettled him into this daring reaction, but I did not read him as such a gruesome type. No, this was the self-assured bluster of a man very used to narrow escapes. I kissed my teeth in annoyance.

“I hope that you had not been long in business with Duke Von Aegir, because I have good reason to believe that, whoever it was that killed him, has had a long and prolific history in this town.” I took some satisfaction in the nervous twitch of his eye. “Constable Bergliez – how many people have gone missing in the past decade?”

“Of course, sir” he dutifully answered, enthused at being invited into the conversation, “There was Elia St. Peters most recently. Liam Dawson, a fisher by trade. And Mason Mason, a… a mason if you would believe it. Bricklayer, rather.”

“Truly?” Bannister guffawed.

“I’m sure it will be terrifically amusing when they read out his name at your trial,” I forebode. I leaned closer to the bars and in a low growl continued, “I know that you are confident that you will slither out of a guilty verdict for a murder, but how would you fare with three, I wonder?”

“You don’t know anything,” he rasped, nearing on me, only the intimation of apprehension in his voice but enough to know that I had struck upon my victory, “You’re lying.”

“You have been availed of how competent the constabulary is; you are in here, after all. And I am not your friend, but you need not make an enemy of me either. That is, if you answer my questions truthfully,” all spoken in a quiet and threatening voice such that Bergliez would not properly hear.

Bannister began to pace around his cage, such as large felines are often wont to do, then without warning lurched towards me.

“And what if I tell our officer over there that you’ve been attempting to cut a deal with me? What will he think, I wonder?” he near whispered, close enough that I could smell his stale breath.

“Make no mistake: this is not a negotiation; this is not a fair and equal business. There is no advantage for you here, should you bet against me.” I pressed further in my assault, rounding my voice off again to a level pitch. “You were not the only one to visit the Von Aegir manor preceding the duke’s death. There was another, who – in great part to your efforts – escaped the attention of the police, leaving you to be apprehended.”

“What would you have me do?” he barked, looking surprised at his own outburst, but going on anyway, “Stay in this backwater while the body was still warm? Staying or going wouldn’t have made me look any less guilty. These people,” he stabbed with a finger towards Bergliez, “they were looking for somebody guilty, and it was gonna be me.”

“You were already a day out from Drothin before the body was made public; how did you know to leave, if you did not kill him yourself?”

“I didn’t know! It was just a coincidence,” he squawked.

“The wounds on the body – I know your dog was not responsible – something else was. Someone met with Duke Von Aegir the night he died, wounding him with a dagger or knife, and then the beast was somehow involved.”

“I should’ve just kept my mouth shut,” he bemoaned, subsiding back onto the bench.

“You followed him, and you saw something, and that is why you were so quick to flee from Drothin; and now you will hang for the crime of another,” I threatened, drawing to my full height to look with impassive eyes down upon the man.

“All right, yes! I knew he liked to go out on walks at night, the madman! So I went out to find him. I was just gonna give him a little scare, I brought Daisy with me, ‘cause she’s got a bloody mean mouth on her, but she’d never hurt no one, I swear. But I saw something out there, something I can’t explain. It put the fear of the goddess in me, I knew, I knew it wasn’t a thing of Nature. So I got out of there, took to my heels, and Daisy right by the collar, I got us both out of there. He was alive when I left him. He didn’t ever even see me!” he proclaimed, the whites of his eyes overpowering his visage, “Then at the edge of the moor, I heard the dreadful howl of a dying man, it sounded like at first, when it changed into something truly demonic. The whole host of hell marching down the valley.”

I turned sharply around to Bergliez, “Your confession,” I gloated, and walked out the door.

As circumstance would have it, I passed Von Aegir on my way back to the manor, still out on a ride it seemed, head to his chest and deep in thought, the tail of his crimson cloak like a veil behind him as his horse navigated the road at a leisurely pace. I quickened to meet him.

“Mr. Von Aegir,” I called.

He bolted upright in his seat, and turned in my direction.

“You should be more mindful when out alone, or the beast will come calling,” I chastised.

“I am not alone,” he pat the side of his horse’s neck, “Dorte is with me. But you did not come to me with niceties, did you. What is it you want.”

“How well did you know Irene St. Peters?”

“She was as well as family to me. When I was younger she would often visit with little gifts and trinkets. It was her that fostered my love of riding.” He looked wistfully out to the end of the road. “I had entertained thoughts of visiting, for old times sake. It is a shame that she is away.”

“Did she possess any mechanical inclination?”

“She did,” he said, looking to me with mild astonishment. “I remember… she could make these amazing little contraptions and puzzles of wood and metal, and she would always gift me one whenever I asked. I felt that she must have made them just for me, though it is a bit unseemly to admit... Is this all you needed?”

“Just one other thing.” I pulled the manila folder and papers from the breast of my coat, and extended it out to him, “For you.”

“Why…,” he began, suspicion clouding his face as he slowly took the letter from my hand, “do you have my post?”

“I know how to be polite. If the situation warrants it. To get what I want,” I grinned. “I took a visit to the post office for my own benefit, and it occurred to me to do you a favour. Do not worry – it is all completely intact.”

“If your intention is to make me distrust you, then you have done a perfect job of it.”

“That it exactly my intention.”

“And what purpose does that serve?” he asked incredulously.

“None, I’m sure.”

“Is it your specialty to be completely obtuse or is it a condition, perhaps?”

A deep chuckle rose from my chest.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Von Aegir.”

He merely shook his head and rode off.

It was the next morning, writing over the sturdy desk in my borrowed room, that I observed through the ample window overlooking the back of the property, a dark form rising over the hill. Evidently, it was Von Aegir returning from an early ride, but something about the way he sat troubled me. He showed none of the youthful vigour I was accustomed to seeing in him. Rather, he was slumped forward precariously, horse at a wild sprint in the direction of the stables. I dropped my pen, leapt from my chair and down the stairs still in my shirtsleeves, passing Mrs. Toller in the kitchen as I grabbed whiskey and an armful of linen from the scullery shelves.

“What is going --”

“Call the physician immediately, if you know what’s good for you. Your young master’s life is on the line,” I warned as I hurried out the door.

I bounded up the dirt path towards the stables, arriving nearly at the moment that Von Aegir’s horse came to a stop. The last vestiges of his energy seemed to dissolve then, and he swayed violently to one side. I rushed up to meet him before he could fall, bottle of spirits tumbling from my careless hand and nearly cracking upon the ground as I lay him carefully down.

His coat was wildly torn at the side, through which I could see an arrangement of deep slashes, and his trousers were in bloody tatters around the right knee. He was breathing heavily, face pale and contorted in pain, but when he opened his eyes they were keen and unclouded. I pulled a small dagger from my belt, threw open his coat and, grabbing a handful of his sullied shirt, cut it swiftly open to the wound beneath. I reached behind me for that square brown bottle, twisting the cap and bringing it to Von Aegir’s lips. A draught of the raw spirit served to restore him somewhat.

“I saw the beast; a silver four-legged demon. From the corner of my eye… did not even, hah… hear it,” he gasped.

I took the bottle without a word and spilled a liberal amount over his midriff. He had enough sense not to clutch at the wound; instead he grabbed at his uninjured leg as he cried out in pain, and with his right, clamped viciously around my own leg. I began to cut strips from the linens, and apply them to his savaged skin, pushing back against the flow of blood.

“I did warn you,” I said with a grunt as I pulled the makeshift bandage tight, “not to go out alone on the moor.”

A hunt for the beast was called that very day. I accompanied the constabulary in their trek through the forest and over the moor. The site of the attack was determined and inspected, not any more notable than any other part of the forest, though several animal traps were discovered in the surrounding area. They were unmarked and clearly handmade, an unfortunate rabbit still caught in the teeth of one such. They were carefully collected by a young constable to be taken back into town once the search was complete. I remained with him, speaking with the sergeant while others continued forward in the search, until the shrill cry of a whistle cut through the air. We made haste towards the source of the sound, expecting to find the beast at the end of it, dead. Instead we walked into a narrow clearing, the ruined remains of a small building near the centre.

I circled it slowly, eyeing the ground surrounding it, earth more rich and interspersed with clay here than at the edges of the clearing; the brittle bits of wood, thoroughly burnt; the rough stone foundation.

“Perhaps an old hunting cabin. Struck down during a storm. Goddess only knows how long it’s been here,” remarked the sergeant.

“No. There is no rot,” I swiped my index over the charred beam, and pulled away with a black stain upon my glove, “and the ash has barely washed away. This is far more recent. As recent as the Verdant Moon, wouldn’t you say?”

“Then, this has something to do with Duke Von Aegir’s death?”

“This is where the murderer kept the beast,” I sighed, “until she decided to unleash it upon her prey.”

“She did?”

“I think you would be wise to pay another visit to Irene St. Peters.”

I returned to the manor some hours later, glad to be back in the warmth. I intended to return to my room immediately, but just as I turned the handle I was possessed of some whim that had me crossing the long hallway where an identical wooden door stood waiting. I adjusted my collar and combed a hand through my hair before rapping a knuckle to the door, three sharp knocks, and a quiet voice called me in.

Within the room was a robust dark oak wardrobe and a matching vanity, on which hung a velvet cape. A heavy trunk occupied a corner, and a luscious chaise-lounge filled another. The curtains were drawn close but for one, under which, Von Aegir lay in a large bed plush with pillows enough fit for a king, but looking as tired and drawn as a pauper.

“Mr. Vestra, this is a bit unexpected.”

“I can leave….”

“No, I am glad. I had meant to thank you for your rescue the day before. Despite our initial antagonism, I cannot deny that without your efforts, I most likely would not be here to-day.”

“I merely stalled for time until a more expert hand could intervene.”

“Nonetheless. Thank you.” He paused a moment at an awkward silence, unsure in how to continue before looking me up and down. “You look a bit ruffled, pardon my rudeness. Is the search not going well?”

I brushed self-consciously at my sleeve, “It is going _typically_ well, which is not to say that it is going well, but I have been out in the woods all day aiding the police, as it appears my clothes can attest to,” I deliberately brought my arm up to check the time, “and by my estimate, the culprit will have been discovered and collected by the police by now.”

“And who is it?” he pressed.

“I asked you before, about Irene St. Peters.”

“Of course, but you cannot mean to say – “

“That it was her that let the beast on your father.”

He sat there, gripping the bedclothes, face down-turned, a mixed look of disbelief and sadness marking his fair features. Quickly he spoke, “But I knew her. She would visit the manor and speak with my mother and father for hours on end. I adored her, and she loved us, too. How could I ever believe she could do this to my father. To me?”

“In the search to-day, in the woods behind the property, the remains of a cabin were discovered; she would have kept the beast there, close to its intended target but distant enough from the town to avoid detection. Such a large creature would need ample food. The horses in the paddock not far away, a manor too dire for money to keep it guarded. She was a tinkerer – I knew at once when I saw the workshop at her home; traps easily laid to catch any more prey that maintaining the beast required – five of which were found to-day, forgotten in the forest. She would let it out on occasion – a test – to condition it to kill another kind of animal.”

“You would have me believe that she was the one causing people to disappear all these years?”

“You yourself admitted that there was a murderer in Drothin, preying upon its people, and now that you know it to be true, you would deny it?”

“No, I will not deny it, as long as you tell me: how did you know it was her?”

“The housekeeper told me of four people who had visited the manor in the recent past – you would not have known, as you were isolated from your father in the city. St. Peters was one of them. She was immediately suspicious to me; an amiable visit after so much time in silence? It was obvious that she wanted something from him. After failing to secure it, she met him on the moor during one of his moonlit meditations. Stabbed him with a large knife, and so weakened, led him to the forest cabin very nearby, and let the beast do the rest.”

“But what was it she was after?”

I hesitated too long, I knew, even he could see, “I do not know. Perhaps she let be known some affectations of the heart and was scorned by your father, and revelled in revenge. Perhaps she held something over him, extorting him beyond what means he had to pay once he had fallen into debt. I suspect that the truth and purpose behind this murder will forever be hidden from the world.”

“The police will get a confession from her. If it is as you say, and she was responsible for all those townspeople over the years, even – even possibly my mother – then she will hang. It will do her no more harm to speak her motives now.”

“She will not hang, I’m afraid.”

“What! You think that she could possibly go free?”

“On the night of the murder, there was a heavy storm. After killing Duke Von Aegir, the beast turned on her for whatever reason – resentment or blood-lust. She survived it enough to be able to return to her home unseen – excepting one keen onlooker. She locked the door behind her, and there she remains, all traces of blood leading to her house washed away in the deluge but for a hint of it on the handle of the front door, a mere spot of rust to the untrained eye. The police should find the body there, and the knife to prove my theory.”

Von Aegir sat there for a while, contemplative, quiet.

“You are quite amazing, Mr Vestra. I ask you to solve my father’s murder, and instead you solve a dozen,” he said painfully. “With the beast still roaming, I am not completely at ease, but I feel like this nightmare is nearing its end.”

“Only for another to begin.”

“Well,” he distressed, “I am trying to move into the next few weeks with optimism, but I have had a chance to look over the estate finances – curse myself now that I have. I think, I will sell it,” he shook his head, and threw a hand upward, “Everything. I cannot stay here, even if I wanted to. Though even then I worry if enough will be left over to maintain my small digs in the city.” His hand fell flat on the bed again. “I am sorry – I did not mean to burden you with my, my… predicament.”

“It is no matter.”

“I expect that you will be returning home soon. You must have left suddenly enough for someone to miss you.”

I gave a subtle nod, “Likely, yes, but I am compelled to remain here for a short while longer. I will stay a few days, and ensure all the loose ends are tied up firmly.”

“Good.”

I waited for him to continue but no words seemed forthcoming. Perhaps he was too tired.

“If that is all – good evening, Mr. Von Aegir,” I said with a small bow.

“Good evening, Mr. Vestra.”

Several days passed, and the investigation was officially closed with the successful capture and disposal of the beast. It was a close and secretive affair, the creature dispatched in the depths of the forest and quickly burned, to curtail the efforts of enterprising rumourmongers from spreading any concrete descriptions of it. For it was a formidable animal: nearly the size of a Fodlan brown bear, but with emaciated and loping limbs; long hair such a pure white, that in the light of the moon, surely it would appear to glow; rows of needle-like teeth and frosted unseeing eyes. The few officers present at the time insisted that no creature like this could exist in Nature – that it was a demon from another realm.

It was determined in the end to indeed be a species of bear, likely imported from Almyra, that had become ravaged by some sort of fungal infection during its time in the woods. There was much debate over how such an exotic animal found its way into St. Peters’ hands – a rich relative, a travelling circus – but I removed myself before a more ludicrous theory could present itself. St. Peters’ and Duke Von Aegir’s bodies were hastily cremated, and with this case finally resolved, I could return to my pressing work in the city.

I collected my myriad correspondence into the side pocket of my duffel, threw on my black coat, and buttoned it tightly. Softly blew out the lantern, and silently opened the door. It was early enough that the curtains in the hallway were still drawn close, everything awash in a dull blue light. I could hear the faintest chirping of birds and the low hum of wind over the hills. Then, approaching from my right, the muffled sound of carpeted footfalls.

“Mr. Vestra! I am glad I caught you, I was afraid that I would not. My suspicion that you would attempt a quiet escape proved true, but I was determined to not let you leave without a proper good-bye." Von Aegir hobbled over to me on wooden crutches, fiery hair dulled to brown in the weak light. “I was thinking, once I return to the city, that we could meet for a lunch. I have enjoyed your company these last few days, as I like to think that you have enjoyed mine. I am hoping that I might secure a room in the university dormitory, and I know that you live a bit far from the city centre, but –“

“I intend to move from Waterfront in the next moon.”

“Oh. Well, if you are still in the city...” he said with a put-out smile.

“You say you will return to the dormitories at Garreg Mach?”

“Generally priority is given to the first years, but I am hoping they might make an exception for me,” he shook his head, “They must. I do not have many other options.”

“Have you no other friends in the city, from school, that you could ask? A minister’s son, surely you were quite famous.”

“Indeed I was, but you might know as someone with somewhat of a name for yourself as you do, that fame does not necessitate loyalty, and I find myself at a lack for close friends.”

“Perhaps close strangers then. I have been eyeing a place on Orchard Street, coincidentally within an easy distance of the university. I think that you will find that the rent is exceedingly reasonable when split between two people.”

“You are –,” he gawked. “Here you made it sound as though I might never see you again – as though you were leaving Enbarr entirely – and instead you propose sharing rooms?”

I watched the growing light in his eyes, the unabashed enthusiasm, and nearly smiled myself.

“I am not completely adverse to the idea.”


	2. The Crimson Dowry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like dialogue.

It was nearly a month later, my family’s estate settled and with my health irreparably ruined, that I arrived on the doorstep of 403 Orchard Street, little to my name but the clothes upon my back and the contents of one large trunk. I was greeted brusquely by Mr. Vestra, who then aided me in carrying my belongings up the stairs to our shared dwellings.

It was a somewhat dark and gloomy sitting room: a long bench and spirit case occupied one corner, and two mismatched armchairs sat before the cold fireplace at the far wall. Heavy aubergine drapes concealed a pair of broad windows, which were flanked by several bookcases filled with thick tomes. Around the corner was another small sectioned room as sparse as the first – with only a range and square table – and a door, through which I could glimpse the corner post of a bed. The whole of the space carried such an air of order and sobriety that it bordered on ascetic, and I might have worried for my health had I not pulled the curtains back to appreciate it in the proper daylight; with the cheerful mid-morning sun illuminating its shadowed corners, and given a bit more furnishing and care, I could see that the place might be quite lovely.

Mr. Vestra placed a key in my hand and made me aware of the landlady, Manuela Casagranda, who took house just below us, then indicated to me my chambers before disappearing up the stair and behind his own door, and to whatever pressing matters he was involved with before I had arrived. I was somewhat sore that he was so quick to leave me after we had been apart, but in the days and weeks proceeding my moving in, I had little time to socialise; from the Wyvern Moon to the Ethereal, I was sunken in a mire of neglected coursework, a month behind my peers, and in dire need to make an impression to secure my continued attendance. So regularly was I darting between Orchard Street and Wilhelm’s that I nearly put myself in the hospital again from aggravating my knee and chest wound. Mercifully, I managed to persevere through the entire term still intact, my outlooks positive for the new year.

It was an evening on the 19th of the Ethereal Moon that I sat in my armchair before the fireplace, free to let the hours go by in idle thought, that I finally let my mind wonder to my curious roommate.

Hubert von Vestra was upwards of six feet and lean, with a posture stiff and upright such that he appeared much taller. He had a strong brow and eyebrows so thin that they might have winked out of existence at any time and I would be none the wiser. His gaze was narrow and piercing, framed by dark circles, one yellow-green eye perpetually obscured by a waving forelock. He had an excessively pale complexion, his ruddy nose the only colour to his face. His sharp cheekbones and thin, severe features, coupled with his height, gave him a calculating and foreboding presence, which he made frequent use of when intimidating visitors, and which he entertained no attempts to obscure his delight in. He had a propensity for long black garments, and when his hands were not obscured by chamois leather gloves, they were flecked in bits of plaster. When I asked after them, he explained that he often dealt with poisons, the customary devilish curl to his lip suddenly more apparent, but was not forthcoming on what their purpose was.

The first few weeks, he had been somewhat irate; I had the sense that it concerned his work – some knotty case that eluded him only by the ineptitude of a crucial associate, he insisted. Mostly he kept to his room, endlessly writing letters or receiving telegrams – he was very secretive with it all. I may have offered him some advice when he was in a more altruistic attitude, but he evaded all my attempts at a closer intimacy, preferring his books of crime and chemistry and all other manner of things. Sometimes I would wonder what happened to the man that I had shared that quiet week with while recovering in Drothin. Perhaps that humour only caught him at certain times, or came and went as the tides do, with no heed of any other person or event. And then, something seemed to shift again with the appearance of Miss Arnault.

I had just returned from St Cichol Day mass – prematurely, as the damp cold of the day had set off my knee in spectacular fashion – hastening up the stairs as quickly as I could hobble, eager to set my knee to rest before the warm hearth. So preoccupied was I with my pains that I failed to perceive the voices filtering in through the cracked door. I opened it to Vestra speaking animatedly with a beautiful young woman. Her long brown hair flowed freely about her shoulders, her striking maroon dress high-collared, black lace adorning the hems. Manicured eyebrows sat atop bright emerald eyes sparkling with humour and wit. She shifted a lock of hair behind her ear, and I spied large earrings dangling from them.

Vestra’s eyes snapped to my face, looking unamused to say the least.

“You have returned early.”

“Yes, my knee was giving me trouble. But who, if I might ask, is your lovely companion?”

“That is not --”

“Dorothea Arnault. Lovely to finally meet you! Hubert’s done such an amazing job of keeping you hidden, I had half a mind to think that you didn’t exist at all!”

“Hu… he has told you of me? Nothing too disparaging, I hope.”

“He gave the impression that you were a very dashing and energetic man, quick with his tongue and quicker to lend a hand.” She peeked over to the dry and somewhat pained look on Vestra’s face, “Not in so many words of course.”

“Thank you for the visit Miss Arnault,” Vestra interjected with a leaden tone, “but I am an exceedingly busy man, and this day shortens with every word. Shall I get you the door?”

“Are you really going to be so disobliging, Vestra?” I asked.

“I take it as a rule not to mix professional and personal affairs.”

“We’ve known each other for years, what do you mean? I don’t count as a personal friend? Mr. Von Aegir, perhaps you could help me sway him,” she appealed.

“I do not know that I could convince Vestra of anything.”

“You might be surprised,” she said with an odd knowing look at Vestra. “You see, I have an unfortunate friend, daughter of Count Galatea. Though her grandfather benefited from his title, the lands he owned had not been kind to him, and in her father’s lifetime they have become nearly barren. As a result, she has seen little luxury in her lifetime. Whatever may remain, Ingrid is fit to inherit, and her father is determined to marry her away. He has been obliging over the years to Ingrid’s preferences, but he must be feeling his age for, in his haste, he has picked a most dastardly man, Bartholomew Gracin.”

“You would ask Vestra to investigate him?” I asked.

“Yes. It would seem that for the past five years he has been aspiring to secure a title for himself, and failing that, is content to marry into one. Ingrid is open, if a bit aloof, and I myself would have no qualms to the coupling had he been any other good man; but I have it in good confidence that his wealth was accumulated only through great cost to his fellows.”

“I have no interest in charlatans,” Vestra interjected.

“I do not condescend to mean that he deals in nostrums and fool-tricks. Would that he had hands black with counterfeiter’s ink, I would not be so adamant. But no, his hands are red, I fear.”

“How do you figure?” I exclaimed.

“He made his fortunes as a house-agent, and with a particular fondness for the arts. Last year he was set to claim a theatre of his own, but the arrangement was unsuccessful. It is still showing regularly, but on the way down. One of the understudies quit, and then was hired into the Mittelfrank Opera, which is how I came to this knowledge.”

“I am missing something; what significance does the Mittelfrank have?” I asked.

“I am employed there.”

“That is quite fantastic! Oh, but go on.”

“I have confided in Ingrid my worries, but she is faithful to her family to a fault, and is willing to put these troubling rumours aside if they might deliver her some consolation. To dissuade her necessitates something more substantial. And that is where I call upon Hubert. Or so I thought.”

“In this theoretical scenario where I aid you in putting your nose somewhere it does not belong, how do you suppose I would accomplish it?”

“You’re a detective, or close enough to it – you have your ways, don’t you? And if you can’t help me, I might take Mr. Von Aegir for myself, and we will do some sleuthing, the two of us.”

“By all means, Mr. Von Aegir had no plans for the afternoon,” said Vestra, turning toward the window, voice echoing dully on the glass.

“What makes you so sure?” I groused. “Perhaps I had a day with Gloucester and the boys planned.”

“You return early from church, nearly falling over your cane, with the intent to go cavorting with schoolmates? I think an aimless evening with your leg up before the fire is the only excitement that suits.”

“I am not an invalid. Come Miss Arnault, what are your plans for to-day, I would be eager to assist.”

She looked between Vestra and I, and perhaps it was amusement on her face when she addressed me.

“I welcome your enthusiastic support, Mr. Von Aegir. Meet me on the street in a quarter of an hour,” and she turned toward the hall, calling to Vestra over her shoulder as she departed, “And you know I am very good at putting my nose where it does not belong,” she said, closing the door behind her.

“She is lovely,” I said cheerfully. “Why did you not tell me before, that you were involved? Surely not because the lady is lacking in any way. Though you were very cold to her.”

“We are not involved. She is merely brutally over-familiar with everyone.”

“Is that so,” I said, massaging my knee. “Well, I suppose I am out again. Perhaps I will see you this evening.”

“Perhaps,” he drawled, still turned to the window, the winter sun burning the silhouette of him behind my eyelids.

After a quick cup of tea and reunion with Miss Arnault, cab awaiting, I was once again flying through the streets of Enbarr, a new mystery on my mind.

“Our first – and only – destination is the Wren. Yuri’s friend should be waiting for us outside, he said.”

“Yuri – is that your contact from Mittelfrank?”

“Yes. He is the one who warned me of Gracin and his reputation. We have not known each other overlong, but he is a well informed and intelligent man – and a masterful tenor. I trust what he says.”

“And what does he say?” I asked, shifting the bunched hem of my coat.

“That Gracin was prepared to invest heavily in the Wren, but not for any perceived value in the theatre as much as that he fancied the leading soprano. They became involved – secretly, of course – but she was unfaithful, so they say, and there was a loud and raucous falling out. Some weeks later, she was found dead in her dressing room. Now, it was decided that it was a wasting disease, but I cannot help but be suspicious when a woman dies so quickly after a man is scorned.”

“I would be remiss to say that he is _not_ suspicious. And nothing came of it?”

“Nothing,” she said, looking out the window at the grey buildings passing by. “She was an orphan, a small circle of friends… No justice to be had for one lonely artist against the name of a rich and noble man.”

“He may be rich, but if what you say true, he is certainly no noble man.”

“Yes,” she said airily, “that is what I meant.”

“Oh, but did you not…? Hmm.” I turned to look out the window, somewhat confused, as the cab slowed in front of a square building. The façade was painted a spotless white, with a large engraved double door and portico, and wrought iron fencing in an art nouveau style sheltering various potted plants against the brick. A shadow wandered over the wall of an alleyway, but it was only a stray dog. “This is it?”

“Yes, the White Wren Theatre. Pretty, isn’t it? There is our chaperon just outside the door.” Miss Arnault shuffled up her skirts and made to get out, then halted in a stoop, hand frozen upon the latch. “I neglected to mention before: our friend here is unaware that this is an investigation, so we must employ a delicate hand,” and then the carriage door was thrown open, and she was striding across the sidewalk.

I followed Miss Arnault out and greeted the woman who stood in the door. She gave her name – Emilie Dughall – and after exchanging pleasantries, she took us through a tour of the theatre.

It was just as clean and unblemished inside as out: the walls were papered airy and light, the floors polished to a shine; the main hall, though small, was not meagre, and stagehands and dancers scurried about, preparing sets and rehearsing for the evening show. Mrs. Dughall introduced us to any performer that was curious enough to stop and strike up a conversation, including the manager of the establishment, Mr. Fletcher.

“If I am not mistaken, the lady must be Miss Arnault,” said Mr. Fletcher, quirking a small bow. “I am honoured to have you at our humble theatre. Many a time have I visited the Mittelfrank hoping you might grace the stage.”

“I had no idea anyone knew my name, let alone that I was so famous,” she said abashed.

“Then they show you no appreciation. Though you do not take centre stage, your voice draws centre stage to you. Your potential is unparalleled,” he insisted, “But I do not mean to forget the gentleman here. How may I call you?”

“My name is Ferdinand Von Aegir. It is a pleasure,” I replied, ”but now you find me jealous, as I have yet to hear Miss Arnault perform.”

“You have done me a mischief, Mr. Fletcher,” she said playfully. “How can I hope to overcome Von Aegir’s expectations now.”

“I’m sure that it will come as naturally as a songbird sings.” He tucked the thumb of his right hand into the pocket of his waistcoat, and pat the other over the chain of his timepiece. “Now, I must know: will the Wren have the pleasure of entertaining you tonight, or is your excursion merely an afternoon event?”

“I’m afraid so. Mr. Von Aegir has someone waiting at home, and I have already stolen him away for too long.”

“Well --” I began.

“But I would be delighted in coming at a more forgiving time,” she went on.

“Our doors are always open to you, Miss Arnault,” and with a genuine smile he bowed and let Mrs. Dughall continue guiding us through the theatre.

“Vestra would scarcely miss me after a week,” I intoned to Miss Arnault as she walked astride me. “I see no problem in staying.”

“It is best not to linger, Ferdinand, unless necessary. We shall see how it goes.”

Mrs. Dughall guided us lastly around to the dressing rooms, one door throwing itself open as we passed.

“Emilie, how have I not seen you all day?” said the woman who came through. I caught her eye over Mrs. Dughall’s shoulder and she smiled faintly. “Who are your guests?”

“Ferdinand Von Aegir and Dorothea Arnault, this is Seraphine Sadoul. Friends of Yuri. I owed him a favour, so they’re getting the grand tour.” Mrs. Dughall turned quickly to us with pacifying hands, “Not that I’m complaining, o’ course. Did you need something?”

“Nothing urgent, thank you. How is Leclerc? We didn’t speak very often, but now that he is gone, I wish to Sothis that I had.”

“He is coarse and endearing – I think we are all suffering him quite well,” Miss Arnault replied fondly.

“That sounds about right. Constantine really was fond of him.”

“Yuri told me of her. I am so sorry that such a thing should happen, as little consolation as words can be. We are all lesser for her passing,” said Miss Arnault with true emotion in her voice.

“It _is_ little, but what more can the living do but find consolation in little things? She is with the goddess now, where no more harm may come to her, and in that I take solace.”

Just then, a stagehand came up to Mrs. Dughall and murmured something into her ear. She clapped her hands, perhaps attempting to dispel the sombre mood.

“I’m afraid I’m urgently needed elsewhere. Seraphine, if you need me for anything, ask Rubine, and he will set you up.” Mrs. Dughall rounded on us lastly. “Are you two alright to leave on your own?”

“Of course, it’s just down this way? Then we will be off. Thank you so much for accommodating us,” responded Miss Arnault.

“Afternoon,” Mrs. Sadoul said, softly closing herself back into her dressing room. Shortly, Mrs. Dughall was gone to the performing hall, and we were left unattended.

“Are we leaving?” I asked.

“Goddess, no. Quick, come this way,” and Miss Arnault knocked on the door just before us, scarcely waiting for a voice to welcome us in.

Mrs. Sadoul sat before a large vanity, applying rouge to her cheeks in an elaborate sequined aquamarine gown, light blond hair still in a loose bun.

“Hello again,” she said turning to us, confusion masking her face.

“I’m sorry for asking this, I don’t mean to revive dark things, but, in truth, we are here because it is necessary that we learn the true nature of Miss Milleux’s death,” Miss Arnault stated.

“The truth is that she fell ill.”

“And yet that is very hard for me to believe. How convinced are you?”

“You know of Mr. Gracin, I take it, that is why you come questioning. He loved her very much. They were engaged to marry,” she said listlessly.

“He loved her, but to what end?”

“To the end of all lovers.”

“Yet he alone is still alive.”

“They were lovers, but neither of them very loyal, I suppose.

“Is that why she was killed? She was disloyal?”

“You should take care not to accuse someone before you have gathered all the facts,” uttered Mrs. Sadoul.

“When Miss Milleux died, could it have been his face you imagined.”

Mrs. Sadoul spun back round to the mirror and continued as she had been, but at length she muttered:

“It could have been.”

“So please help us now.”

“It will do her no good. It is too late. Her death will stick to Gracin no better than it did when it was fresh. Why does that change?”

“I also have a friend that will be at this man’s mercy if I do not bring him into justice. She is not yet desperate, but was Milleux, at first?”

“She was secretive. I do not know anything, really.”

“Then I will swear to leave and never darken your door, if you can swear to me that what you speak is true.”

“It is not that I don’t want to help you...” she started, but slowly weakened to silence. Then she took a small piece of paper and pen, and on it she wrote an address in thin swooping letters. “He will know.”

“Thank you.”

Following the address on that scrap of paper had led us to the distillery district, its large and brutal factories crowding the busy waterfront. Smokestacks pierced the sky, spewing out their blackened breath, and the cobbled streets were eternally in shadow. We navigated the circuitous network of alleys and unadorned brick façades for a quarter of an hour, every warning scuffle of a footfall in a dark alley or untoward quirk of a passing stranger unsettling me; and then a ramshackle building tucked against a mammoth storehouse revealed itself as we turned a corner.

Its brick was crumbling and painted with ash, the few windows scattered on its face, paint peeled away and opaque. The entrance stood ajar, and I took a last fleeting glance towards the clear light bouncing on the harbour before we crossed over the threshold. We held caution with us as we navigated the halls, rotten wool carpet that had seen its best days surely before the Empire had been founded. We narrowed onto the room – 645; and a treacherous six flights they were. I knocked on the door, to no avail – it would seem our quarry was out; but then softly, I heard a stifled cough, and Miss Arnault threw me an imperative look. I knocked again, calling out to the stranger behind the door.

“A thousand pardons, but we were told that we might find answers here; it is a very important matter concerning a friend of a friend, and Bartholomew Gracin,” I called.

There was no answer. I looked to Miss Arnault who was now speaking into the jamb herself.

“We have just come from the Wren. Seraphine said that here we could find answers. Our goal is merely to bring the evil deeds of Gracin to light so that not one more poor soul might suffer by him.”

“I am of little use to anyone anymore,” said a voice.

“You mean to make Seraphine a liar?”

“If you have been to the Wren, then what more need you know?”

“We were told that Constantine had caught Gracin’s eye, that he coveted her – asked for her hand – and just as suddenly she was dead. I need to know the truth of the matter, their relationship with each other, and by whose hand she died.”

“In my time knowing Gracin, I thought too, that he could kill, given the opportunity – and you are no fool for thinking the same – but you are mistaken in this. Constantine… she was sick.

“Nearly a year ago, on the Guardian Moon, Gracin discovered the Wren. He was immediately taken with Constantine – lavished wealth and praise upon her. She could not refuse, for she feared falling destitute above all. Fletcher knew, but he would only lose, should Constantine be gone. So they conspired to hide her illness until they could hide it no longer. And every day further falling into his grasp, all the more I had to hide my intentions from Constantine; for I loved her and she me, but once Gracin has his eyes on something, he is loath to let it free.

“He nearly discovered us in her dressing room one day, but I am sure now that he had suspected long before that. He called Constantine to speak privately, and the depth of fear I felt could surely drown a man; but she emerged, Gracin almost pulling at her hair and yelling abuse. It took Thomas and Callaway both to get him outside. Several days later I came to the theatre and she was not there. It was Fletcher that had to tell me. I could not believe him; I ran to her home, but it was wholly empty of her presence. As though she had took the soul of the house, too, when her own fled. So you see, she was taken by no hand, but the hand of the goddess.”

“I am sorry,” was all I could think to say.

“It is just as well. I have made my peace.”

“How did you come to know Miss Milleux?”

“I was employed at the Swan. Just another stagehand. A man of no importance, Alfie Whyatt.”

“You were?”

“No longer. It has become dangerous for me to be seen.”

“How so?” I asked, looking to Miss Arnault with apprehension.

“When I said that there was a dark streak in Gracin, it was not merely supposition. He is a formidable man in his own right, but he would rather leave the heavy work to a hired man, and he employs many. I have met with one or two myself. That is why I linger here. He is not so troublesome to quiet and reclusive men.”

“If Gracin is not guilty, what need he to silence you?” questioned Miss Arnault.

“Not to silence, but for revenge; he is slighted by my very existence. Therefore I must go,” said the man, without malice.

“If you fear for your life, you must go to the police,” insisted Miss Arnault.

“I wish only to be left in peace.”

“Is that what is right or is that what is easy?” she said, raising her voice, but there was no response from the other side of the door. She balled up her fists and furrowed her brow, “My friend, Ingrid Galatea, is to be engaged to this man; I need assurance that her life is not forfeit. I am compelled to warn you that a locked door will not deter me.”

For the longest time there was no movement or sound, when finally, a wan and haggard face appeared between the crack of the door. The latch was still engaged, and the chain rattled forlornly in its moorings. There was very little inside that I could see: a dishevelled threadbare bed, a worn typewriter on a stained deal table, a stack of papers.

“There was a man who communicated with Gracin. I only ever saw him from behind, but he was dark-haired and balding, clean shaven. He may have worn glasses. I never had the sense that they met for any other means than devious ones. I know it that they eat together at a place called Paragon, on the east end, every Sunday without fail. If it would benefit you to find Gracin unawares, that will be the best way,” he said, and closed the door.

We were ushered into Paragon, passing by several adorned tables occupied by men and women lavished in wealth, overhead the crystal chandelier sparkling like a flowing stream in the height of thaw. To the right there was a raised portion of the floor, edged with a low wooden banister, at which Gracin was already seated at a small table. After all the questioning of today, it occurred to me that I had no idea what the man looked like. Whenever I was required to call him to mind, it was with steely grey eyes and a crooked grin; but he was completely unassuming and mundane. His hair was blond, with a neat moustache, his black dinner jacket cleanly pressed. Perhaps his eyes were small, but in all else he was remarkably average.

We were directed to the opposite side of the room by a large and open window, and I was eager to sit, if not for our mission but to rest my knee – but Miss Arnault took me by the elbow and gestured vehemently to the seat turned away from the entrance and Gracin himself.

“I thought that it would be more fitting for me to take the lookout point,” I reasoned, settling into the seat across nonetheless, as she took the corner chair.

“And achieve what? Tell me the exact moment his contact comes through the door or how exactly he places his napkin upon his lap? Is it very imperative to know such a thing?”

“No, but he has sat himself so far away, what more could be accomplished here?”

“Do not worry your pretty head, Ferdinand. We are not too far away to hear as long as we have eyes to see. That is why I must relegate you to the other chair. Now, you’ve brought your coin-purse, no doubt? We are going to make good use of it to-day.”

I frowned and took a gander at the menu that had been placed before me, and felt myself blanch at once at the prices; I might have preferred no prices be written at all.

“Now, how goes it with Hubert?” she asked.

“You are very familiar with strangers.”

“Who? With Hubert? I like to think we’re friendly – as friendly as a man like Hubert can be.”

“But then, just a moment ago, you used my given name; and even had I known you several years, I do not know that I would call you thusly or else entice certain rumours between us.”

“If you are accusing me of being improper, I really do not care for it. To uphold propriety is to inhibit freedom. I refuse to deny my true nature.”

“Your natural condition is to be rude?” I supplied.

“It is not the rudeness – politesse is a facet of control that society influences upon us. Good proper people ask of us to give inconsequential things like deference to a title, or of pleases and thank-yous, and so by degrees take out anything that might define us until, we too, are good and proper people.”

“I do not know that I understand your meaning.”

After a moment of broken eye contact, she spoke, “You are a duke, yes?”

“My father was; and to some degree, so might I be beholden to the title, but I have no lands or property any longer, such that it is completely useless to me. There is no authority or integrity that I might fall upon, should I take the title. What of it?”

She must have sensed my tenderness at the subject, for she let loose that thread with a thoughtful sigh, and instead fell upon her previous questioning that I had distracted her from initially.

“You avoided me before – is Hubert treating you well?”

“Are you so concerned for him?” I asked defensively, and she laughed.

“If you knew him as I do, you would know to be more concerned for yourself than for him. I know how caustic he can be. He takes much pleasure in dark deeds and delicate men, like yourself.”

“I am sorry?” I balked, a nervous pang resonating in my chest, and she laughed again.

“I mean to say that he enjoys playing tricks on people receptive to them: the hot-headed, the hasty; he runs circles around them, and delights in the fact. What did you think I meant?”

I was interrupted by the timely arrival of our dinner, and I graciously took a knife to my pheasant roast. Miss Arnault looked satisfied nonetheless by my non-answer as anything I imagine I could have said, taking to her own meal in silence. I felt compelled to say something in defense of myself, and fell on the observations of him that I had accrued since my arrival at Orchard Street.

“These past months, I have committed some thought to Vestra. In your time knowing him, did you find that he kept very odd hours? I find that he is out very late into the night and just as oft, that he has already left the house before I awake. He rarely sleeps it seems, fuelled on ungodly amounts of coffee – for he rarely eats as well. When he is not out, he is writing. I will catch him squirrelling papers into a locked drawer, and rarely leaves anything on his crowded desk when he is not there himself. It is an odd compulsion for anyone that did not have something to hide, and he undoubtedly does. But I suppose there are documents that he acquires from the police that are very dangerous, should the right person see them.” I took a bite of meat, and hummed in pleasure before continuing.

“He comes home with blood stains – nothing too offending – and brushes off my inquiries. _I went to the morgue_ or _Just butchering a pig_. Sometimes the things he says are so villainous, and he says them with such a plain face that I cannot help but wonder how much truth constitutes the jest. He is terribly curt with clients and most officers, but on occasion, nearly sweet with me, dare I say; and then I recall our first meeting – how we slung words so bitterly – and ponder at the man who sits dreamily in the armchair opposite me. Do you not find him just as vexing?”

She gave some knowing sort of smile as she slowly spoke:

“Yes.”

I was nearly three bites more before a warning look came over Miss Arnault. I resisted the urge to search behind me for the man that had caught her eye, electing instead to heap a great forkful of roast into my mouth, and so silence my curious tongue.

“No worries,” she said. “We have finally just hit upon our man. It is a shame he is faced to the wall, but we must make do.”

“What are they doing?”

“Nothing at the moment. Gracin appears to be ingratiating himself to our agarthian. Much bowing and wringing of hands. How many times have they met, do you suppose; one would think that that was behind them.”

“He is very important to Gracin, then. One can never be too deferential when currying favour.”

“And you would know.”

“And I would know,” I said. “But what good are we across the room? I really cannot hear anything they are saying.”

“As I said, Ferdinand. As long as I have eyes to see, and they, lips to read, there is a use to us coming here after all. I don’t suppose you have the talent for it?”

“No, I do not,” I said, intrigued.

“And that is why you sit where you do.” She sighed, rearranging the napkin in her lap. “Well, it appears we are in for a long night – they have begun to talk about prospects on Amity Street, and I see no end in sight.”

She shifted in her seat and took an absent bite of a carrot, eyes flashing in Gracin’s direction every so often. In this distracted manner did I finish my plate, dissuaded from conversation by the forbidding and clouded look in her eyes. I occupied myself with the shapes of people passing by the window. At length she sighed but then perked to attention.

“They keep repeating a word – a name – but I can’t distinguish it. I could detect no other thing of relevance: one of Gracin’s upward stock, a play that he had seen recently. I fear we will come out of this no wiser than as we entered. The other man – this is tedious; I shall call him Smith henceforth. Mr. Smith is not so forward about inanities. But I cannot see any lead we might follow from their conversation.”

From the corner of my eye, I spotted the waiter by a newly seated table. I sprung up and walked swiftly over to him, passing closely by the table at which Gracin and Smith sat, hailing the waiter just as he was to disappear into the kitchens.

“Would you be able to do some dessert for me? It is a special day, and I want to surprise her,” I said in a stage whisper, eyeing Miss Arnault still sitting at our table. “But nothing conspicuous; the lady is easily embarrassed.”

“Of course, sir,” he said, but I was not listening to him. I strained my ear to the table behind me, hoping they might speak that secretive name. I walked slowly back to my seat, a bit jittery with nerves.

“I have got it,” I grinned. “The name is Solon. Have you heard of it?”

She narrowed her eyes and shook her head, “I’m afraid I haven’t.”

“All’s well. We must draw our night out a bit further then, and follow Gracin as best we can,” I proclaimed.

“You seem far more spirited suddenly. Did something overtake you in your long travel to the other side of the room and back?”

“It is the natural result of a plan gone right, as minimal as it was.” Again I spied the waiter from across the room, headed in our direction, some chocolate delicacy in hand. “I trust you are not too full?”

“It was a deceptively filling little piece, I will say. Why?” And here, a small plate was placed between us, a dark rich slice of cake adorned with raspberries, ribbons of caramel laid over it. Miss Arnault raised her eyebrows.

“As I do not often partake in chocolate, I may need assistance,” I explained.

“If I must.”

We ate at a leisurely pace, and soon Gracin and Smith were making their good-byes. The two men parted amicably but with little fanfare, Smith quickly spirited away in a dogcart. We idled by the entrance a while, feigning a chatting couple, prepared to hail a cab at short notice, but Gracin took down the sidewalk with a jaunty step. We followed him east, towards Emperor's Court, the manicured streets where wealthy men often take residence. He stopped once or twice in a boutique on the way, at one time waylaid by a kindly looking man who recognised him. Gracin seemed well unaware of us, and I felt more comfortable striking up a conversation with Miss Arnault.

“How did you meet Vestra, if you do not mind me asking?”

“We were neighbours. I would have met in him the hall, I suppose. I felt that he was a bit of a repulsive fellow. I avoided him for some time, and then, I think, there was a period of several weeks where it occurred to me that I had not seen him at all. I couldn’t help but feel a bit curious, and thinking back on it, perhaps a little concerned, too; when one late night – I stole into the building and up into my diggings, when I found Hubert nearly insensate outside his own door, blood running down his cheek.”

“Oh, my,” I interjected.

“And here I find a man of questionable character huddled against the wall, thinking that he should be a dangerous man as well. But I had no intention in waking to a body on my doorstep and bloodstains in the carpet – so I helped him.

“He was finicky and petty as a stray cat. I tried to ask him what had happened, and he didn’t tell me anything, of course. I thought that after the ordeal he would be more forthcoming in our encounters, but it was just the opposite; he sought me out specifically to antagonise me. He thought that he had something to lose in being seen in such a state, whereas, if he had left alone and never spoke of it again, I was more than prepared to do the same. In attempting to obscure himself, he only makes himself more visible. In any case, once it became clear to him that I meant no harm, he became more amenable to a friendship.”

“He sounds like someone I should never hope to meet.”

“No. I will not call him a good person – he has far too many secrets for that – but he is loyal. As a dog.”

“What would he think of us, gossiping behind his back?”

“He should like to cut out our tongues,” she laughed, and then suddenly plucked us from the sidewalk into the portico of a small bookstore and sighed. “Sorry about that, but he was very close to turning around just then.”

“Really? I could not tell at all.”

“Where would you be without me?”

“Most likely at home, at this hour. Oh, but where has he gone?” I asked, peering down the street and scanning the faces of passersby. Miss Arnault did the same, and said a word or two unfit for civil conversation.

“Unbelievable,” she huffed.

“Let us go to the next intersection and see what we can see.”

“Contrarily, I think it would be best to quit the place. Ferdinand.” She looped our arms once more. “Come. I’ve had enough for today, and so too, I think, has our dear Mr. Gracin.”

“Are you sure you do not want me to accompany you home? It is not right for a gentleman - “

“”Thank you for such a lovely day, Ferdinand. Good night,” she smiled, and with a wave her cab was clattering down the street, streetlights speckling golden light over the horses’ retreating forms.

I yawned and went inside, trudging up the stairs, my cane knocking rhythmically on the worn wood. There was a soft glow peeking out through the foot of the door, and I found Vestra before the bookcase in the corner, large red tome in hand.

“Good evening, Vestra. How was your day to-day?” I asked openly, making the way to my chair before the fire, cheerfully crackling in the grate. I stretched my leg out and sighed, balancing my cane on the side table.

“I spent a peaceful day inside,” he said, turning a page. “No distractions. Like my time at Waterfront – I miss them more every day.”

“You will not put me down to-day, Vestra.” I looked at him expectantly, but his eyes did not stray from his book. “Well, are you not curious about what I have been up to? Say nothing – I will tell you.

“We followed Miss Arnault’s excellent lead, and first visited the theatre of Constantine Milleux, which led us to the distillery district and a secret lover, Alfie Whyatt. Unfortunately, his recount of the situation went contrary to our theory that Gracin had caused her death, and it was indeed consumption, rest her soul. But not all was lost; he then sent us to one of Gracin’s haunts – a restaurant that he oft visited with some disreputable acquaintance. I do not suppose you have heard of the name Solon?” Vestra raised his eyebrows, nose still in his book, but said nothing. “Well, I suppose not. It was worth asking.”

“What are your plans for tomorrow?” he inquired, settling into the chair before me.

“I do not know if there is much to be done but wait until the next he meets with his agarthian. Oh, but I despise the wait. I wonder if there is any value in going to his home or workplace, and simply knocking on the door?”

“There are many men who, upon finding themselves at the head of a lucrative business, have no desire to have a hand in it any longer, and would rather benefit without the inconvenience of dealing with the lower orders. Gracin is such a man. I imagine the table you sat today is as close as you will ever get to him.”

“I do not know – he took a long stroll after the restaurant; he assumed a very amiable attitude for the type of man you say that he is. He even engaged with a man as he walked by.”

“I do not mean to say that he is unsociable; but I harbour no doubts that he has good reason to appear approachable. There is a tactic, too, in giving the impression that one is more vulnerable than they are in truth.”

“Are you suddenly interested in the case now, Vestra?” I taunted.

“It was you who initiated a tirade, unsolicited.”

“’Tirade’. Really. Sometimes you are too much.”

“Too much of what?” he crooned.

“Too much trying,” I chattered, “Too much dramatic. Too much cunning.”

“You flatter.”

“Like a snake,” I bit, grabbing my cane and lurching to my feet. “I am going to bed,” though I was sad to leave the comfort of my chair and the sphere of warmth around the hearth. As I was about to turn into my bed-chamber, a deep and sure voice drifted to my ears.

“Good night, Von Aegir.”

It was only two days later and already I was brimming with anxieties concerning the case. The new semester had yet to begin and so I found myself with no scarceness of time. I wired Miss Arnault, but she informed me that her attentions were fully occupied by work for the rest of the week. Gloucester or Briancourt crossed my mind, but I knew that I should not confide in them this delicate matter. Vestra had become tired of me, I think, and I was not wholly eager to stir that beast. Not for the first time, it occurred to me that I did not possess an abundance of friends; but this was the first that I would properly confront the idea that I might be a lonely person. It was strange. I had never considered myself as much. Instead of dwelling on these thoughts, I endeavoured to take a walk at the park across the street.

True to its name, it had been an orchard, but now constituted a part of the Garreg Mach University campus. There was a stone path that circled the ample grounds, cherry trees springing up every ten feet or so. At this time of year they were sprinkled with lanterns, and on that rare night of snowfall, the sight rivalled that of any lush summer day. As it was, the grasses were meagre and yellowed in the harsh white sun.

I wandered the path several times, at one point a hound trailing me curiously. I entertained the thought that it looked very much like the one I had seen near the Wren Theatre with its stump of a tail. Eventually it lost interest and vanished, returning to the usual schedule that a stray dog must take. I had already been out for an hour, at least, and had grown cold in my boots, fatigued enough to return to the indoors. I met Vestra on the stairs and inquired after him.

“I must go pick up a manuscript,” he answered.

“How is that?”

“Exactly what I said.”

“For what, might I ask?”

“A novel.”

“A novel? Is that what you have been writing this whole time?”

“I did not write it.”

“So, a writer friend?”

“Why are you so concerned?”

“We have been acquaintanced for several months and I hardly know a thing about you beyond your detecting work. I have given ample space for you to volunteer yourself, and you have scarcely done a thing. Is it wrong for me to be curious?” Vestra arranged his scarf and put on his top hat.

“I will not be back for several hours,” he said, and was gone.

I took the next hour or so drowsing on my bed, and when I awoke – the sun barely shifted from its apex, the clouds immobile on this windless day, all still and quiet – I felt that no time had passed at all. I swung my legs to the floor, ran a hand through my tousled hair. I stretched, and stood with a yawn. Before the vanity I lingered, automatically reaching for the round silver box upon its surface.

Inside was a gift from my mother, the only thing I had left of her: a tear-shaped pendant of a bright orange sapphire. It hung from a silver chain, bezel of the same hue, six delicate prongs holding the stone in place. Engraved on its surface was a symbol such that of a short staff, flanked by two shapes of wings or antlers, possibly. She never had the chance to tell me. I ran the chain over my hand, flipped the pendant over and over again, feeling the smooth face of it on the pads of my fingers.

I conjured a memory of my home: before the lines of carriages and creditors with open, restless hands; before the dusty portraits of ancestors plucked from walls and lined in parade; when the beast was still a fairy-tale, and I could stand by the road and see through the second floor window, the silhouette of my mother reading in the spring-time sun. Before my father was the man he would become, and I….

I might have remained there interminably, lost to the world, had my knee not started up its incessant complaining. The necklace was returned to the box, the box to my vanity, and I to alertness. I resolved to make a long-awaited visit to Miss Casagranda; for some reason or another, I had managed to come this far without a proper conversation. I was met in the hall, however, with two men I had never seen before.

The first was tall, wrapped up in an expensive fur coat. The brim of his hat was wide and hid much of the right side of his face, but I could see that his blue eyes were kind, if fatigued. His features were delicate, contrary to his large stature, and pale, his blond hair sleek as silk. And if the first was tall, then the second man was a giant, head nearly brushing the ceiling. The dark colour of his skin contrasted handsomely with the colour of his hair; and though he was silver, he appeared to be fairly young. His overcoat was of a dark grey, with a beryl scarf winding round his neck. His jaw and brow were robust, his gaze stern and steely, but when he looked upon the other man, it softened to reverence. I moved aside to let the couple pass, with a brisk _Good day_ on my lips, and the first tipped his hat to me in acknowledgement.

I found Miss Casagranda’s door easily and was welcomed in with enthusiasm.

“How has Orchard Street been treating you? Well I hope,” as she ushered me pass the threshold.

“Truthfully, I have had scant opportunity to appreciate it until recently, but I am in the process of rectifying this injustice; first of all in speaking with you.”

“Come, sit and make yourself comfortable,” she said, gathering a teapot and cups from a round deal table by the wall.

“You have had company recently?”

“Yes. Two acquaintances from the Mittelfrank days,” she said distractedly, manoeuvring a kettle to the stove. As it came to a boil, I took a moment to scan around the room.

It was of a very open and square design, one closed door at the far side and two large windows facing towards the street. An elaborate concertina screen of limed oak obscured a corner of the room, a chair of the same colour sitting beside it. In another, a large spirit case was overflowing with half-empty bottles. The walls were decorated with memorabilia, one picture of the Mittelfrank Opera House being most apparent. Miss Casagranda herself was still hovering over the stove, arranging biscuits on a dish from a worn tin container.

She was a handsome woman with a regal and dramatic air that immediately had me thinking of the theatre, even before I had known her name; a fair and delicate brow crowned with a bob of light brown hair and inviting warm eyes to match. The teal gown and velvet shawl that adorned her figure would have been bawdy and flirtatious on anyone else, but she wore them with such an ease of elegance that few could ever accuse her of impropriety. The first time we had met, her voice and elocution had rung clear as a crystal bell to my ears, and I had been momentarily brought back to my childhood; of the countless hours and days spent watching the opera with my parents.

“Why was is that you retired from the opera?” the words flowing unbidden from my mouth. “If it is not rude of me to ask. The world lost something crucial on that fateful day.”

“I loved it, it is true. It is not without remorse that I think back on that time and wonder how things could have been different; but, as all comforts must fade, I knew one day that I might find myself in a dire situation, but without my voice and talents to support my livelihood. I would have to find new prospects, and thought it more prudent to do so well before I was desperate, and not at the very cusp of desperation. Even then, I am only here to-day because of an exceedingly generous patron,” she elucidated, tipping a hand out before her. “And ample luck. This building also allows me freedoms that I did not have as a famous songstress: time to myself. Time to pursue the things that I passed by in my frenetic days on the stage.”

“What might those be?”

“My most pressing goal at the moment is merely love.”

“Love?”

“And failing that, the bottle,” she muttered to herself, “But enough about me; what is your vision of the future? You were studying...”

“Medicine.”

“A noble profession. What made you choose it?”

“I – I do not know,” I said evasively, feeling a sudden melancholia take me. She nearly raised a brow, I think, staring right into me.

“You’re sure?” she spoke slowly. My eyes strayed to the open window, if only to avoid her own, temporarily. I entertained the thought of feigning a more buoyant tone, but was not confident that it could salvage the souring atmosphere.

“For to-day – I am sure.”

“And perhaps, some other day, you will not be sure?” she asked, pulling the whistling kettle from the stove. I smiled weakly and she returned one of her own. “How about that tea?”

Several days later, Miss Arnault and I found ourselves idling in a _patisserie_ across from the Paragon. Gracin himself had entered nearly a half hour previous, but Smith was yet to appear. We each sat, one eye turned to the outside, speaking amicably over tea and sweets.

“What do we do when Smith arrives? My wallet is looking very thin,” I said.

“As good as the meal was, I will have to agree with you,” but she did not answer my question.

“I suppose there would be nothing else but to trail him again?”

“To what end? Perhaps he will burglarise a bank before he retires for the day? No. We will have to do something more drastic.”

“What do you propose?” I asked, leaning forward conspiratorially.

“Oh? The nobleman is perhaps not so noble?”

“Nobility is not a state of being – it is summoned through actions; a lady is in need of my action. Thus, inaction, in this case, would be ignoble.”

“Is that how you justify every whim that takes you?” drawled a slippery voice from behind me. My hand jumped to my chest in startlement.

“Hubert!” Miss Arnault exulted, “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Quite the coincidence, isn’t it. But I would urge against dogging him to-night. He may appear vulnerable – as I expressed to Mr. Von Aegir recently – but the efforts of two bumbling detectives seems to have excited his anxieties, and his bludgeonmen are eager to exercise their swinging arm.”

“I did heed your words, and I concocted a plan, should it come to that,” I explained.

“I should hope this plan included nothing short of a revolver, lest you wished to find yourself dredged up by the Serpentine come next week.”

“Would you be amenable to supplying one, Hubert?” asked Miss Arnault. I flashed my gaze between the two with some trepidation, each staring fixedly at the other.

“I would not.”

“Then what are we doing here?” she said airily, but with a thread of steel.

“Enjoying an intimate evening with Mr. Von Aegir and,” Vestra responded, his mouth a thin line, “saghert and cream.”

“If that’s the case, you should join us. You’re far too conspicuous, hovering there at Ferdinand’s shoulder. Perhaps you are partial to perching?”

“You have soundly tempted me, but I must really be leaving. Good evening Miss Arnault, Von Aegir,” he said, bowing slightly and quitting the room.

“So you have been promoted!” grinned Miss Arnault.

“Promoted?”

“Never have I heard him say a name without some title or other. He really has taken to you.”

“I would never have guessed.”

“You must excuse me Vestra,” I said, slipping an arm through the sleeve of my overcoat, “I am late in meeting with Miss Arnault.”

“She did not inform you?” he said from his place before the range.

“Of what?” I inquired, as I straightened my collar.

“You have not read the paper.”

“No; as I declared earlier, I was late enough as it was. Now, what is it that she did not inform me of?” frustration rising in my chest.

“Gracin has been arrested.”

I stopped dead, staring at the back of Vestra’s head:

“Of what?”

“Kidnap and plans to commit murder. There will be more to follow.”

“Whose? How….”

“Alfie Whyatt.”

“But I do not understand,” and finally he ceased whatever experiment he was perpetrating in the other room to converse with me properly.

“When I learned of Mr. Whyatt’s predicament, I went to his place of dwelling. I suggested to him that the ire he drew from Mr. Gracin was, in fact, more boon than bane; and that, should he see fit to coöperate with my plans, I could ensure Mr. Gracin and his men to an uncomfortable bed at the proper institution. He agreed, after some persuasion, to make himself known in an inconspicuous location, with the constabulary poised to net anyone attempting to spirit him away. I was concerned that he would hesitate in taking the bait, given your and Miss Arnault’s unmistakable tailing of him, but he was not as prudent as I suspected of him.

“And he was arrested?”

“Neither of those detained that day were Mr. Gracin of course, but both were very agreeable to negotiation, and our devious house-agent was invited soon after.”

“I thought you were not interested in aiding Miss Arnault” I asked, subsiding onto the settee in confusion as he gradually came into the sitting room.

“I was not. Until I heard the name Solon.”

“So it was important. And you… you pretended not to know?”

“I did not wish to make you unduly hopeful, should the connexion amount to nothing,” he said, not turning away. “Solon is a blackmailer – the most prolific and devious of all that reside in Enbarr. I have had dealings with him before, but he proved too slick for any allegation to stick. Even if he were brought to court, I am sure he could convince any unappreciative bench to sing his praises before the day was done".

"How did Gracin know of him?"

"It was revealed that the man Mr. Gracin was meeting with was a contact of Solon’s, predisposed to great shows of wealth. And extortion. A miracle that he had not been apprehended before now. Or perhaps exactly predictable.” Vestra stood before me, straight-backed, hands behind him, as though reciting a report. “That is why he did not appear at Paragon that second night.”

“And Mr. Whyatt is unscathed?”

“He is dead.”

“What?” I exclaimed.

“No serious harm came to him by Mr. Gracin but, due to the stress of the ordeal, the state of his health declined rapidly, and he quickly succumbed to his illness. Before initiating the plan, he suggested to me that he had very little time left, and one condition to his coöperation was that I take pains to deliver his manuscript to be published.”

“So that was the writer you visited,” I said half to myself. “Mr. Whyatt had been ill?”

“Something I imagine he contracted from Miss Milleux.”

“He did not let us inside when we found him,” I spoke in realisation, “Evidently it was as much for our own safety as his.” I shook my head. “But you say that these things were made known to you – by whom or what method?”

“It is imperative that I am well informed, for what I do,” he answered, but it was no answer at all.

“At least now Miss Arnault may rest easy that her friend is secure from harm,” I could say with some relief. “And so you have done it again – our undertaking completely fruitless and distracted, while you, Vestra, come in, and with no effort make the problem evaporate. Well it is – I hate to say – anticlimactic,” I said in a small voice.

“The method is immaterial. It is resolved, and now I may return to important matters.”

“Are you sure you were not glad to do it?” I teased half-heartedly, gradually standing to my feet.

“I was fuelled purely by my disdain of Solon, I assure you.”

“If you insist,” I acquiesced, pulling the front door open.

“Where are you to now?”

“Since I am dressed already, I might like a walk through the park. Do not worry too much.”

“I do not worry,” he said plainly. Surely sensing my irritation, he continued to speak, “I do not worry, because I know you will be fine.” I turned to face him, one foot over the threshold, and there was a rare sincerity in his eyes that I had been missing. He extended a hand out to me. “Your hat.” I took it graciously and placed it atop my head.

“My thanks.”

He closed the door behind me, and I went down the stairs and out to the street, a chill wind whipping up the ends of my scarf. The park was almost as empty as it was last I came, but for a single woman sat on a bench. I took the same route through the tumbleweed bushes, and round the icy fountain, thinking all the while. Thinking about Vestra – the spaces he might occupy in his daily work, the things he might be called on to do. Then, Miss Arnault’s story rose up in my mind, and the concern for Vestra grew. Apprehension for him, but also apprehension caused by him. What were those secrets that he must hide?

For the second time, I rounded on the park, and still the woman was sitting at the bench. She was clothed in purple and black, a large bonnet gracing her head, fringed with lace and interwoven with various flowers. Her hair was cut short around the chin, black fringe extending over the crown of her head. She looked out absently with wide, grey, anxious eyes.

“Good morning m’lady, I could not help but --” I began, hesitantly taking a seat beside her, and she, as though just becoming aware of my presence, squealed and sprung from her seat to scurry behind the nearest tree. I was startled by the outburst myself, a conciliatory hand extended in her direction. “I am so sorry, I did not mean to frighten you. I just could not help but wonder what a lady is doing alone outside,” I said peaceably, craning forward to speak to her around the tree trunk, “On a day such as this?”

“Nothing, I am-m not doing anything,” she squeaked.

“That is alright. For a very long time, I believed nothing to be only a sign of indolence, but lately I have come to amend that belief. I, myself, am trying to do nothing, but my thoughts will not slow nor quit themselves, and it is very difficult to appreciate the nothing.”

“Mmhmm.”

“I sense you are in distress. Is there some way I may rectify my behaviour? Or I could simply leave --”

“I never said that there was – was anything wrong.”

“No, you did not say anything to that effect, but clearly there is aught troubling you – I feel compelled to help.”

“I am fine, really, truly,” she insisted, still obscured by the tree.

“Would you like to know why else I am out here on this dreary day? I was once approached by a stray dog that I thought I had recognised from another time. I was hoping to see it again, though to what end, I am unsure.”

“Was it a small foxhound? With a bitten ear? And short tail,” she quivered.

“Yes! I think so!”

“The first I saw it, it was limping, so I was worried, and it was gone for very long; but again I saw it, and it was running, so I am glad for that.”

“Does it come here often?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you think?”

“I think it’s looking for something.”

“I do not know that this is a lucrative spot to scavenge.”

“I mean – she is looking for someplace safe.”

“Is she?” I asked. I waited for a response but instead there was a piercing scream, and I bolted from the bench, searching for the cause of her sudden anguish. In her hidden spot she was standing stock still, face toward the tree trunk and eyes shut tight as a trap. Playfully pulling at the hem of her skirt was a dog with a bitten ear. When it saw me, it relinquished its grip and wagged its short tail.

“Look, but it is just your beagle friend!” I proclaimed. She gingerly opened her eyes and turned.

‘Oh. It is,” a small smile pervading her nervous expression. She extended a hand, and it tilted its head in an anticipatory gesture.

“Surely the most sociable street dog I have come across.”

“Isn’t it? I adore the stumpy tail.”

“Perhaps it will follow you home?”

“I could never have an animal,” she saddened, scratching under the hound’s chin. “It would be far better off trailing after you.”

“I am very fond of animals, but it is not just myself; I have a curmudgeon of a fellow-lodger.”

She craned her neck up to look at me from where she crouched, and for the first time I saw her eyes unobstructed and honest before they darted back to the ground. She said to me in a plain voice:

“That is a shame.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started reading some Wilde in the middle of writing this chapter because Doyle's writing style was wearing me out, and it manifested itself as everyone philosophizing, and I was worried about inconsistent style. But then I thought, well it's a different narrator anyway, so it doesn't not work. yeah
> 
> Also, in regards to agarthian - hopefully I managed to get its meaning across, but if not, it merely means: someone who is shady and secretive; mystery man; or something to that effect - not that they are an Agarthian.


	3. The Picture of Affection Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, I don't have the attention span to update regularly. I'm tryin >.<

“Von Aegir, your dog refuses to relinquish my armchair,” I heard Vestra say, a muffled voice beyond my closed bedroom door.

“I am sorry, Vestra, I will be there in a moment,” I called, fastening the top button of my waistcoat as I exited to the sitting room.

“A late morning,” he drawled.

“Due to a very late night. I was in my papers, and the time got away from me. Come, Hresvelg,” I motioned with a hand, and she came to sit at my feet.

“The Von Hresvelgs were of a line of emperors that spanned centuries; to name an animal after their legacy is the utmost disrespect,” he bristled. “Moreover, did our agreement to keep the creature not stipulate that it maintain, at minimum, a three foot radius?”

“Yes, but why is it always that you must sit when she is there?”

“That is an amusing way to say that she infallibly sits exactly as the thought should cross my mind.”

“You are very easy to read, I suppose.”

“Oh, _I_ am.”

“Now, do not be offended, Vestra. You are accustomed to the eyes of men; they do not see as animals do. An animal sees beyond what is presented, into the true nature of a person.”

“I understand. You are attuned to the psyche of four legged creatures,” he said dryly.

“Indeed! But if you are so sore over her name, then I will merely call her Lady in your presence.”

“At the very least she has the pedigree for it,” he capitulated, subsiding into his chair.

“Does she?”

“There is a mark inside the left ear, mostly obscured by the fact that it is fairly damaged, but it is a registry number for the Adrestian Canin Club.”

I bent down to flip her ear up, and saw the faint ink of an A, G, and then perhaps the number two.

“Yes, I see,” I said absently, still inspecting the mark. “Canines are not my speciality but I might have recognised.” I looked up to Vestra. “What of you? Clearly you are not fond of animals; what occasion would you have to come by such knowledge?”

“The director of the Club sought me out personally – at the behest of a circle of beleaguered members – concerning a series of mislabeled mutts that had inexplicably replaced their prized breeding stock.”

“How was it resolved?”

“It was the director himself. He had made a decent business for himself trading them to others outside Adrestia, but in his ambition, grew too conspicuous. Someone let my name be known and he could not refuse, lest he cast suspicion on himself.”

“And yet he was poised for failure the moment you agreed to help him,” I said proudly. “Were all the dogs restored to their owners?”

“Not every one.”

“Perhaps then Lady was one of those lost.”

“It is... within the realm of possibility, as unlikely as it is.”

“How far and circuitous a route you have come, Lady, to find Vestra,” I cooed, rubbing behind her ear. Vestra’s eternal frown deepened. “To find him as dour and impassible as ever.”

Presently, there was the faint sound of a door opening and closing from down in the hall, and footfalls hastening up the stairs.

“It appears I have a client,” said Vestra, standing to his feet.

“I will go out and exercise Lady,” I responded, but he put a light hand to my elbow before I could retrieve her leash.

“That is not necessary.”

“I will put her in my room at the least,” I said softly.

“Please do.”

When I returned to the sitting room, a young man was seated at the settee upon which all clients recite their tales. His hair was a wavy chestnut, loose about the ears but lightly styled away from his face. He had a tall tan forehead and square jaw, golden eyes dominated by dark curling lashes. A straw boater with a pale blue hatband sat in his lap, both hands clasped over it. His linen suit was a matching plaid of subtle greys and blues. He looked away from Vestra looming with his back to the window, to eye me cautiously as I turned into the room.

“Do not hesitate to speak before Mr. Von Aegir,” preëmpted Vestra imperiously. “He will know of the matter whether you tell it, or I do.”

“That is fair, I suppose,” said the man, “though I do not agree with it.

“My name is Bran Von Ochs, my father’s brother: Baron Von Ochs. I have come to you to consult over a troubling matter concerning my late uncle. For you see, it was my understanding that, upon his death, my father would inherit the title, due to the fact that my uncle had no children in the Empire. I imagine that my father thought this as well. But the will lists to his only daughter, the country estate and everything it concerns, as well as his diggings here in the city.”

“But you said he had no children?” I interjected, leaning slightly on the back of my armchair.

“Not here, but rather in the Kingdom. She has been living in Fhirdiad since childhood, and while it was far from an exile, I believed her too distant from my uncle’s attention to be considered.”

“So you wish to contend her claim,” Vestra stated.

“Far from it,” Mr. Von Ochs said with irritation. “No, I do not care whether my father has his way. Whatever he might gain in swindling my uncle will not a penny come my way. It is my cousin that best concerns me.

“In my youth I lived in Amsel by the Oche Mountains, for which my family came by its name. My father and uncle got on very well as boys, which extended into their adult years, and so, there was scarcely a day where I did not visit. My uncle had two children, Monica and Antonin. Antonin was a bit younger than Monica and I, and sickly, so he was often relegated to the indoors. My own siblings were far younger, and so it was regularly Monica and I adventuring the estate grounds or amusing ourselves with ambles to the ocean together. She was my best friend, I knew her better than anyone. We went on like that for several years but she was abruptly sent away to the Kingdom to live with our Aunt Magia.”

“This feels a very long story for little compensation,” Vestra deprecated.

“But I felt that I must enunciate the fact that I knew her so well or you would not believe me when I say that the woman who arrived at my uncle’s residence is not Monica Von Ochs at all.”

“What brought you to this conclusion?” inquired Vestra, peering critically down at Von Ochs.

“It was a myriad things. I accounted it to her many years in another country and culture that she spoke more roughly than she did as when we were young. She always had a fiery brilliant hair, and her face was just as I imagined Monica might look as a woman, but she was more fickle, expression more aggressive,” he spoke severely. “She remained as carefree, but it was with an innocent cruelness, like that of a child that takes to flooding ant-hills. Despite our harried relationship, I took these suspicions to my father, but he was unconcerned.”

“You waited long enough to come to me – a bright grey suit, not a black hatband or even a handkerchief to flaunt your mourning for the baron,” Vestra said derisively. “Evidently this woman, despite your observations, was convincing enough that you should question for several weeks whether she was an impostor or not. What was the deciding factor?”

“Monica had a scar on her right wrist – she cut it severely prying open an oyster on one of our childhood outings. This woman had no mark at all.”

“You do not think that a woman would obscure such a blemish to avoid unscrupulous strangers?”

“I – I suppose that is possible...”

“You admitted that it had been many years since you had known her. Would she have done any better to recognise you?”

“You mean that I should drop the matter,” Von Ochs said stiffly.

“Not at all.” Vestra paused, then continued in a flat tone. “You wish to identify this impostor – with what intent?”

“I am,” Mr. Von Ochs said tentatively, brow furrowed, gaze stealing in my direction, “foremost concerned for my cousin. I worry as to the reason why the real Monica did not come to Enbarr upon her father’s death. I cannot help but think that some evil has befallen her, perhaps the very one who did it, walking freely and without fear in my uncle’s home. I believe that finding the identity of this mysterious woman may be the only way to determining whether my cousin is even still alive.”

“Have you gathered whether she will remain in Enbarr or move to the Oches once all has settled?”

“The will stipulates that she must be married before she may inherit; luckily she is already entangled,” Von Ochs said bitterly, “and plans for the wedding on the 11th at St Cethleann’s Church. Beyond this date, however, I do not know.”

“You have omitted the Baroness’ influence in the matter. As well as that of your cousin’s younger brother.”

“They do not have any influence in the world – they are both dead.”

“Of?”

“Illness. They succumbed, one quickly after the other, a short time after Monica was sent to Fhirdiad. I always wondered whether the two were not connected.”

“Were you ever in contact with your aunt or cousin while they were in Fhirdiad?”

“I did send letters at first, but rarely would I get a reply from Monica herself, and I was already sore over her leaving without a warning that I thought it was within my right to cut her out of my life just as swiftly. I always regretted it. More recently, I sent a letter to my Aunt Magia asking after Monica, but I have yet to receive a response.”

“What is her daily routine?”

“I have an office that keeps me occupied most hours of the day, and so cannot say to what she does in the day-time hours. Once or twice, I have gone in the evening to knock on her door to find that she was away.”

“Where is your uncle’s residence?”

“Sonnenfeld Old Place. Nearest to St Cethleann’s.”

“And that is where Miss Von Ochs has taken up.”

“So you will take the case?” asked Mr. Von Ochs, energised.

“I will.”

“I thank you, Mr. Vestra,” Mr. Von Ochs sighed, “To be frank, this matter has had me cut up for weeks but it is good to know that finally there can be something done about it.”

“I will contact you once I have overcome the solution.” Vestra gestured towards the door. “You are free to take your leave,” he said, taking a sudden interest in a series of black leather tomes on a bookshelf. Von Ochs rose from his seat and walked towards the door as I opened it for him.

“Curt,” he murmured to me, “but efficient, I suppose.”

“I apologise for him, though I prefer not having to at all.”

“I am not so genteel,” he assured, “and evidently, so is his client base – or at least, he must make them that way.” He swiped a thoughtful hand over his chin, “But, how long might I wait for his response; I would be more assured to have even a vague date.”

“It is difficult to say. A simple case on the first day may grow into a convoluted tangle, or a very tricky one at the onset, deceptively simple but… From what I can tell, no case has persisted more than a month.”

“A month more, eh. I have suffered worse things, I’m sure.”

“It would be good for you if there was someone trusting you could confide in this matter. One of your siblings perhaps,” I said, and he chuckled.

“My siblings? I might trust those scoundrels as far I could throw them, and no further, but I do have a one,” he said with a shy smile. “I could never ask for better. Frances has always put me right.”

“You have known each other long?”

“Not so long but… Perhaps you have had it before? A feeling of being inexplicably drawn to someone and without knowing their character but for the surface, but upon closer inspection you find that you share more similarities than you could have hoped for?”

“It is quite romantic,” I said, flashing an amiable smile.

Mr. Von Ochs cleared his throat, dispelling the restless cast to his features, eyes flickering to Vestra.

“Tell me, I had heard of Mr. Vestra, but never knew him to keep company.”

“None at all?” I said jovially. “But I myself have only known him for some three quarters of a year, so I am scarcely the man to ask.”

He hummed and rolled his hat in his hands.

“I should be returning home. If Mr. Vestra is in need of me, do not hesitate. He has my information.”

“Good day, Mr. Von Ochs,” I returned, and he threw his hat upon his head as he stepped out into the hall. I closed the door and turned to Vestra.

“It is not so often that you let me sit in on an interview,” I said.

“It is not so important.”

“A case of stolen identity, and perhaps murder?”

“Nearly undoubtedly murder,” he said darkly. “His relationship with his father may be relevant – I thought to pursue it but knew that I would only be rebuffed should I do so.” He shut the ebony volume he held with a snap, returning it to the shelf.

“Have you some idea already on how to deal with the case?” I asked excitedly, indicating to the book.

“This is another matter entirely, nothing to concern yourself with.”

“Then, what is your first plan of action?” I pressed.

“I will go to Sonnenfeld and observe Miss Von Ochs. It is exceedingly likely that this impostor lives in Enbarr. She will have ties with the Von Ochs. If she is alone she will have worked at the same company as our client, but more likely that she has confederates. In which case, the degree of separation will not be so apparent. I might catch her in communication with these people, or she will be foolish enough to return to her home.”

“What of the aunt in Fhirdiad? If she could be contacted somehow….”

“A fruitless pursuit. She is most definitely dead. Any dialogue with her would only solidify in my mind that the impostor has accomplices.”

“Why must she be dead? Moreover, you saw fit to omit this important detail until now?” I said, indignant.

“Mr. Von Ochs suspects that his cousin is dead; his implication that she still lived in the same household as the aunt increases the likelihood that she is also dead. If you are very intent on Mr. Von Ochs knowing, I will not stop you.”

“Not everything must be a secret! There are many times where being forthcoming is beneficial. To alleviate easily avoidable misunderstandings, at the least.”

“Are you intimating that I have misrepresented myself, Von Aegir?” Vestra said, gaze narrowing.

“I think that you take pains to misrepresent yourself,” I exasperated. “To obscure and obscure again something dangerous that you cannot let others see.”

“And what it that?” he taunted, drawing to his full height, his gaze piercing arrows into me from across the room.

“I do not wish to be suspicious of you.”

“It is a healthy suspicion. One that I employ myself. I must.”

He stalked up to me in that swift and gliding way in which he was accustomed. I responded in kind, squaring my shoulders and glaring unerringly into his yellow eyes, radiating every fibre of my irritation, I am sure, whether I chose to or not, anticipating a heated exchange that was no doubt in coming.

“I would like to have my coat,” he said. I deflated, but did not move. “I have miscalculated my supply of coffee. If you would let me past so that I may go out to purchase some.”

“You would run away before admitting yourself to any level of scrutiny.”

“I am not avoiding the conversation, I am ending it,” he said blackly.

“It is well for you that I cannot stay here and quarrel until tomorrow,” I fumed, stepping aside.

“It is well for the both of us.”

My next few hours were passed socialising around a rugby pitch for a fundraising event held by the university. It was the first of the year, enjoying a sizeable and enthusiastic crowd and immaculate weather. It was also the first in what felt like a lifetime that I could properly appreciate the devotion and affection from my old teammates since my injury. They continued their lamentation that I would not be returning to the sport, but assured me that I was always welcome to return, should I find it in me. I found Gloucester after the festivities, and we took a cab to the Ten Elites, his favoured tearoom.

It was remarkably empty for this time of afternoon, especially considering how lovely it was outside, but I was glad for the lack of noise. We passed the sea of small round tables draped in lacy white linen, the pretty lilac walls with crown moulding to spare, to the narrow porch in the back, our habitual spot. Due to my late morning, I had not the chance to eat much of anything to-day. As such, the myriad small plates we had ordered, now arrayed on the table, were polished clean. I poured myself another cup from the stout, rose enamelled teapot. Across from me, Gloucester was dipping into the last spoonfuls of his onion gratin soup.

The man had an ethereal quality to him: dark brown up-lifted eyes, a long narrow nose prominently featured; a pointed chin and graceful jaw. His straight dark hair flowed as a waterfall over the side of his face, billowing like the finest crepe with every cock of his head. His dark tail coat was lined in a mauve silk, shining white cravat adorned with an amethyst stone stickpin. Several golden rings wound round his slender fingers, occasionally catching the sunlight to send it spinning away again. Emerging from his breast pocket was the ever-present red rose. Immaculate as ever.

“Are you well, Von Aegir?” Gloucester inquired. “All day you have been distracted, staring down a ghost, it seems. It is very unlike you.”

“You will have to excuse my behaviour. I do not mean to sulk, but I had a bit of a barney with Vestra this morning.”

“That man again? Why is it always that I find you bickering with him like an aggrieved wife? I will petition you a place in the dormitories, after all. You have never had the opportunity, but they are not so rough. I have become quite accustomed to them. It is necessary to find people of a like mind; that is how I met Briancourt.”

“I thought you did not care for Briancourt,” I responded, confused.

“I would never say such a thing, though he is a bit mad. But I digress. Finding you a new bed is the matter at hand.”

“I cannot simply up and leave him. If anything, merely that I cover half the rent, but more that I refuse to let our friendship fall to the wayside only because I did not have the patience for him.”

“It sounds much more than patience that is required; you have suffered him seven months already – you are a font of patience. But there is an extent to enduring that you had exceeded some time ago. It is verging on foolishness. I cannot counsel you interminably, my friend. Shortly I will return to Derdriu, and what will you do then?”

“Despite all his unbecomings there is a, a spark of something I see inside him that I wish to cultivate.”

“Do not tell me that this is a misguided attempt at reform of a blackguard. It is far beneath you.”

“No, that is not the case! I have put it poorly. I mean to say that,” and I was reminded of the words from Von Ochs this morning, “there is something that draws me to him. I wish to understand him, in the hopes that there may be more in common there than I had thought previously. I want to make a connection, as two people, but I am plagued with frustration. If only he were not so circuitous in all matters. I do not know that he has had a frank conversation in all his life.”

“Again I hear only disparaging words coated with the pretense of the ideal. Less and less I understand what you see in him,” Gloucester scoffed.

“I know what you mean; I have been in your exact place in the same conversation, but now I sit on the other side of the veil, as it were.”

“You have become invested, too much so to cut losses. That is the only reason you hesitate.”

“Vestra is not a gamble. You know I am not a gambling man, and neither is he. We are both very sure in our goals, but the conflict arises when we go about these things in differing ways. But knowing this, often I cannot help but play along to his jibes.”

“He has you entranced like a viper to a field mouse.”

“You have your analogy exactly right,” I sighed, taking a sip of tea. “But what about your Rhymer’s Club? How goes it, I heard from Bracknell that there is a grand novel in the works.”

“Oh, no. I could have known that trying to keep him in confidence was a wasted effort. You know I do not care to talk about my writing.”

“And I say that it is something to take pride in!” I spoke with gusto.

“It is a limited printing with Maximillien’s, it is no grand monument. Only by the nature of it being a collaborative work, has it had the chance to be seen by the greater world. Had I a proper say, it would have remained within our ranks, as I intended when I formed the group in the first place.”

“It is the nature of things to grow beyond our means, but it merely means that we must grow with it,” I reassured him. “I must have a copy.”

“How many times was it that Blackheath invited you to join our group, and you refused?”

“You know that I admire the delights of your labour, but I feel the knowledge of its inner workings should only lessen the majesty of your fine work, Gloucester.”

“As I said, it is a collaborative effort, but I appreciate your ardour all the same,” he said pridefully. “Very well. I shall have a copy sent to you. My schedule has me fairly engaged so it may be by post, or I might find the time to deliver it in person.”

“It is an honour, indeed. What is it about?”

“I am afraid you must possess your soul in patience, my dear Von Aegir, for that is all the time I have for today. Wooster attends for me at the Azure Hall, and he must be entertained.”

“Very well, then I shall revel in the anticipation,” I vowed, folding the napkin from my lap and placing it on the table as I stood with Gloucester. “Shall I hail you a cab?”

I returned before six o’clock to a quiet home, Lady gnawing on a bone that she had invoked from some secret corner. I became too concerned for Vestra to have the heart to confiscate it. I left her in peace in the sitting room, conjuring reasons for why he could spend over six hours on a simple errand as I tidied the breakfast-table and occasional chemistry laboratory. As the hours passed, the dread I felt over the coming conversation with Vestra transformed into a dread of his prolonged absence. This was nothing strictly out of the ordinary, I reasoned over a cup of tea. Vestra’s business was his own, and he was free to come and go as he pleased, as was I.

I took to an early bed, but the next morning had changed little. Going through my morning routine, I noticed a blanket folded on the settee that I did not recall being there last night, but I could not be sure that it was not just my hopeful imagination. I walked to lecture like any other day, graciously distracted from my concerns by Briancourt’s theatrics for a few hours. When I returned home, I brought Lady out for a walk in the campus park.

There was no sign of the purple woman.

Though I only knew of her from that one short occasion, her temperament had left an indelible mark on my memory, and I endeavoured to meet with her again by my frequent visits to the park, if not to thank her for, in some way, uniting me with Lady, but if merely to say hello. Unfortunately, despite her implication that she frequented the place, in the four months since our first encounter, I had yet to ever see her again. For a long time proceeding that first day, I would search with darting eyes in search of her peculiar Gainsborough with its arrangement of carnivorous plants, but to no avail. Eventually I surrendered any expectations that I might see her again with a fleeting concern, and then resigned wistfulness.

Lady had sufficiently exhausted herself greeting passersby and chasing an impish red squirrel from tree to tree, and was sitting quietly now by my feet, tennis ball in mouth, as I contemplated ordering a cold supper from the confectioner’s on Bridgewater Avenue. I entertained the thought that it would be this very moment that Vestra would materialise behind me with a sharp remark and sufficiently frighten the hair from my head; but as I walked Lady back to Orchard Street and up to our rooms, there was no shadow at the corner of my vision, no dark whisper of his voice in my ear.

I stood in the centre of the sitting room, dust motes falling gently, illuminated in the warm welcoming glow of a spring day, but there was only an eeriness in its banality. Lady had fallen asleep in Vestra’s armchair, and I took some comfort in the slow susurration of her chest. Surely Vestra must return to sit in his chair soon.

The afternoon drew on into the second evening of a tranquil house. I recalled to mind the other times that Vestra was absent for days without a word or warning, but returned properly healthy and unharmed, often with the conclusion of a case succeeding not long after him. Surely this was one such instance, for how many times in the past had he assured me of some all-encompassing and urgently important matter as he was swiftly out the door? Reminding myself of this eased my worries somewhat, but I could not escape the fact that very little had changed since the first time he had me in this nervous state.

But good things come in threes, my mother used to tell me, and so I resolved to wait to the third morning before involving another party. An over-reaction in Vestra's eyes would only serve to aggravate him further, and, in such a state, was completely impossible. I lay under the bedclothes, accompanied by the familiar bustle of a building of people settling into sleep and the rumble of carriages carried on a soft breeze through my small bedroom window, and hoped that Vestra could say the same.

The third day passed without event, and finally I awoke on the 7th of the Great Tree Moon, the third solitary morning, to the wet and adoring licks of Lady. On early mornings such as these, I knew a walk was of paramount importance should I like to remain in good standings with the neighbours, so I dressed in short form and went about the town, Lady trotting happily astride me. I took an alternate route from the regular, foregoing the campus park in favour of a meandering path through St. Timotheus Market, an expansive court and series of alleyways populated by all manner of food stalls, amenities, and bric-a-brac. As early as it was, the sun was just creeping over the horizon, and vendors were in the process of laying out their wares, the rattle of wooden gates being folded away echoing over the cobblestones. Aside from myself and a few revellers, the place was vacant.

After perhaps a quarter of an hour of rambling, mostly Lady pulling me in one direction or another, I found myself before the Black Exalt, Vestra’s favoured establishment. Of course, I did not spy him beyond its darkened windows nor feel a gloved hand reach out to me from its shadowed portico, but the expectation had me prepared for it nonetheless. Lady began sniffing at the closed door, and satisfied that it would not open, pulled us back into the alleyways and stalls. I had half a mind to stop her if we were not already rounding back on Orchard Street. She made a great show of tracking something, nose to the ground or high upon the air like a proud marchioness at her own _soirée_. She grew more agitated as we came upon the last intersection – with the row of wispy aspens lining the sidewalk that signalled home to me – her stump oscillating like a propeller. She did not strike up a run but rather kept apace with mine – in deference to my bad knee, I liked to think, though I had grown out of my reliance on a cane for the greater part.

We stepped into the foyer and up the flight of stairs, and just with the clatter of keys as I pulled them from my pocket, I heard a rustling beyond the door. Lady was unnaturally quiet, I remarked, noticing now that the door was slightly ajar. I grasped the worn golden doorknob with trepidation, easing into the room. When I craned my neck round the corner to see a tall lean back beyond the table, it was with no little relief that I called out his name.

“Vestra! I was afraid I might be in the process of being burgled. It is unusual that you leave the door unlocked, let alone half-open.”

“It was not my intent to make myself a stranger in my own home,” he responded thickly, stooped over the range, “but I was distracted. Thoughtless.”

He pulled a rag from his face, and it came away with a red stain. I hastened to his side, all grudge against him abandoned for the moment, attempting to judge the severity of his wound, my hand hesitating at his hip.

“What have you done to yourself?” I fretted.

“It is not something I have done to myself,” he said, daubing again at the wound above his brow.

“It is deep.”

“It is a head wound; they are known to bleed far beyond their severity.”

“Do you forget what I have been nearly six years in study of?”

“Nothing. You were in economics for three ever before the medical profession occurred to you,” but he did not withdraw when I pulled his forelock aside to better view the cut.

“Ah, well, that is true,” I conceded sheepishly. “But when did I ever tell you that?”

“You confide in me very many things, it is only by virtue of my exacting nature that I should remember any of it.”

I prodded at the cut and he summarily flinched, though I took no satisfaction in this, of course.

“You are right. Upon closer inspection it is not so grave.”

From where I now stood, within the sphere of intimacy that Vestra rarely afforded me – or to anyone – I could look him in both eyes. I felt that it should have been a relief to finally speak to him without that eternal obstruction, face to face as two civilised gentlemen, but it exposed itself as an uneasy and lopsided affair. In the concentrated citrine of his narrow eyes, there was some heady swirl of contained emotion.

“There must be something serious after all, your pupils are dilated. Are you at all faint?”

“No,” he said, drawing away from me.

“Was it the case?” his absence or his wound, I did not clarify.

“I went to Sonnenfeld Old Place to monitor the Von Ochs residence. It is a sizeable domicile, excessive for a single man, though it is expected for a baron to become accustomed to the privacy and comfort that his ancestral home would afford. As Mr. Von Ochs attested, it is very near St. Cethleann’s Church. The first I saw Miss Von Ochs was to visit the cathedral for the typical Sunday service. I observed her rifling through the book of hymns in a distracted fashion, but otherwise was not outwardly suspicious. I studied it myself, after she had left the building, but found nothing amiss. She left in a cab shortly after, and I was unable to follow her. The next day, she followed the same pattern, despite there being no services. She sat quietly among the empty pews, waiting for nothing, again, book in hand.”

“Perhaps she was merely there to pray,” I suggested, but he gave it little pause.

“I was able to follow her out this time, but she spent most of the rest of the day gambling at a card house before returning home.” Vestra rounded the small room, dipping the rag into a basin of hot water cooling on the range. He wrung it out in silence, the sporadic ringing of droplets vibrant in the stagnant air. “Today she forewent the church. I petitioned a reveller, after she had left, to cause a scene as she would exit her cab, that I might abuse it as pretext to be admitted into the house. She returned at the time I predicted, and I initiated my plan, the man shouting obscenities and violently gesticulating with his flask. Unfortunately, I had not sufficiently judged his character, and he showed himself to be overzealous and careless. His performance was paramount in convincing her, however, so he will live another day.

“Upon passing the threshold, she began haranguing the maid over her whiskey-soiled skirts, and, in an off-hand manner, indicated that I might need tending. I was whisked away to a side room while the lady of the house retreated to the second floor. There were photographs framed that caught my attention. One such was of the baron seated, wife at his shoulder, the children properly arranged. The baroness had her hand upon her daughter’s shoulder, the son’s knees were skinned.”

“What is significant about these two things?” I asked.

“The sickly son with signs of an active lifestyle, the daughter – Monica – her discomfort was apparent to me, the source of it, not completely sure. I required more evidence for my theories. While the maid was distracted by Miss Von Ochs’ theatrics, I stole into the hall and an office, whereupon I found a photobook of the Von Ochs estate. I had been anticipating a long and drawn out two days to Amsel to satisfy this case, but the photographs served nearly as well for my purposes.

“Two children playing in a garden – Monica and Antonin – and the similarities between her and this new woman were undeniable. One of Monica with a vast body of water behind her, views of the interior of the house, landscapes, foliage. All have a candid and informal personality behind the lens. Baron Von Ochs was clearly a hobbyist.”

“You are not usually one to take appreciation in art. He must have been perfectly masterful to capture your attention,” I said without inflection.

“Hardly. They were seething and sentimental. The eye of a loving father. It was not the subject matter that had any interest to me, but rather the backdrop for it.” Vestra passed me at the table to glide over to the sitting room, hovering at the window, back turned towards me. “There were several photographs of the interior of the house, as I said, banal and useless but for the tell-tale signs on a door-frame or two.”

“I am completely lost,” I muttered, a surmounting resentment in my voice that Vestra seemed unaware of, or that he chose to ignore.

“There were marks of damage and repair on more than one door-frame, indicating a many vigorous and incensed slamming shut; the daughter could not stand to be touched by her mother; the son was not sick; the husband purposely excluded his wife from his hobby. There was a reason that the father sent his daughter away, and the mother is the cause of it. Mr. Von Ochs expects me to solve a case but omits a very dire and crucial thread in spinning his tale.” Vestra paused again in his monologue to look back towards me, perhaps anticipating another interjection. I waited, saying nothing.

“Unfortunately, and unexpected to the impostor,” he continued, “there was a knock upon the front door, and a man was admitted. It was Baron Von Ochs’ brother. She made it clear that he was not invited, but he was insistent on speaking with her, and to another, unspecified man. A confirmation of a confederate, an employer. And so it is revealed that the brother is involved as well. More an unwilling participant, but not ignorant of the scheme. I returned to the sitting room while they still stood in the entrance. She was quick to have me sent out, but I observed that he remained. I did not wish to be identified taking a cab from Sonnenfeld to Orchard after revealing my face to Miss Von Ochs, and so I took the long walk, detouring through St. Timotheus. It had also afforded me some time to think over what I had learned.”

“I see you have even got your coffee,” I seethed, gesturing at the paper bag upon the table. “You have been very prolific. And you saw fit to suddenly evaporate for three days to do it, a short jaunt to the market as pretense for appeasing me. I was convinced that my inclusion at the outset meant that you might ask my aid in it, but again you have insisted on suffering everything independently.”

“I was operating under the misconception that it was concern for my well-being that you were so overwrought, but it was your consternation at being excluded, I see,” he said haughtily.

“Can it not be both? You come and go and speak with me when convenient, and when I tell you that I am concerned about the way you purport yourself, when I rightly call into question your villainous behaviour, you think it only fit to prove me right!” I nearly shouted. “You said that this impostor likely had accomplices, and you were very sure that the aunt was already dead, that any message from her would be forged. Was that because you knew it for a fact? Because you had done it before?”

Vestra had stood by the window, perfectly unflinching during my verbal assault, face stony and cold, but now he stalked to the half-open door, grasping the handle and throwing it open. He stopped suddenly, frozen in the act of storming out, gripping the door tightly, the line of his back exactly perpendicular to the floor.

“And here we arrive at the very place we left,” I said bitterly.

“Put the dog away,” he gestured to where she had been sitting quietly on the floor. “We are leaving.”

“What?” I hissed, equal parts frustration and confusion, and drawing a hand to my face. “I… I have a lecture in less than an hour.”

“It is no small thing, to learn the nature of my work. This courtesy could hardly be extended to you a second time.”

“So I am to be indebted to you for the privilege of your confidence.”

“The private things of my life are not solely my own. And yes, it is a privilege.”

We both stood motionless, eyes locked in a test of wills, but both knowing that I would not relent nor falter in learning the origin of Vestra's infidelity.

“Lady. Come here.”

Vestra had signalled a brougham, and after telling the driver the address, I reluctantly followed into the carriage after him. He snapped the blinds shut, enveloping us in a frail gloom.

“Where are we headed; and answer me plainly,” I snapped.

“You have called into question my methods – by what mode I attain my information. Often that which is not seen by the inobservant onlooker is very plain to me; a plebeian finds that, with an obliging partner, inference and deduction are superfluous to the normal course of thought. Rarely am I afforded so simple a solution as to ask a criminal why or how a scheme was perpetrated. I must look beyond the superficial in my daily work, and to the uninitiated fool, I appear to divine detail which surely I could never have known on my own. And should these sensibilities for observation be insufficient, as I have said before, there are sources available to me apart from those I keep at 403.”

“Sources, you say. What sources could you have that the constabulary would not?”

“What do you know of the Von Hresvelgs?” he inquired, wholly rebuffing my question.

“They began with the formation of the Empire, with Wilhelm I, and ended some thousand years later, with the fall of Emperor Ionius IX,” I recited coldly.

“And more recently?”

“There was some vague event from my youth concerning descendants of the Von Hresvelg line – a duke and his wife who had suffered an incident at sea. They were unharmed, I recall.”

Vestra looked out into the front of the carriage with cold eyes.

“Yes”, he intoned.

“But what of them? Are they something to do with the case?”

“Yes and no,” he said. I sighed. “Be patient, and this unease you have been cultivating will find its conclusion.”

“I should be well used to it now. Your refusal to answer simple questions.”

We subsided into silence for the rest of the ride, after a while stopping outside our evident destination. I followed closely behind Vestra as he stalked toward the entrance, the large double doors opening silently to meet him. He made an odd gesture to the clerk behind the counter without hesitating, bounding up a grand marble stair to the left. I slowed to gather the tall arched ceilings and the down-turned faces of strangers looking on from the second floor balustrade. Vestra halted at the top of the stair, turning back towards me patiently as I made my way to him. We walked a maze of corridors and archways in silence, the arrhythmic shush of my soles upon the crimson carpet the only sound of our progress. With one more corner, Vestra stopped before a closed set of mahogany doors.

“What are we here for, then?” I questioned. “And what is this place?”

“This is the Boreas Club, of which my… benefactor, of sorts, is a perpetual visitor.”

“Is one a visitor if they are at a place in perpetuity?” I sighed. “And so this is the method by which you so easily solve cases?”

“There is a great web of information that ties the dark and disparate corners of Enbarr. It may be called upon – to pull a vulnerable thread, and so bring to light that which is required.”

He opened the door and bid me enter to a comfortably sized study. A sumptuous writing desk was situated on the far wall between two windows. There was a chaise to the side, and a tantalus beside it. The décor maintained the dark browns and reds of the rest of the building. I heard a shuffle of papers and the form of a woman became apparent to me seated at the desk. It was not that she had been obscured by something piled upon it that I had not seen her, but that she was quite diminutive in stature, and wore a red that obscured herself against the crimson of the wallpaper. She had large grey eyes that belied a surfeit of resoluteness, a round pale forehead and delicate quirk to her lip of an eminent conviction. Her light brown hair was plaited and coiled over each ear, and secured with golden pins.

“Vestra. You are very late,” she spoke with a steady timbre.

“My humblest apologies, there is no excuse for my behaviour.”

“Peace, Vestra. It was not a reproach, I was merely making an observation. Your guest is Ferdinand Von Aegir, I take it.”

“Her Grace, Duchess Von Hresvelg,” Vestra announced.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” I said, finally coming to understand the hedging replies Vestra had made until now. “Were you expecting me?”

“Yes, I had our meeting arranged for yester-day after-noon, at Vestra’s request, but he wired me shortly before the appointed time to reschedule. It is a pleasure to have met you as well. I wonder that it has been so long that he has failed to introduce the man he shares his home with, but he and I do share a sort of business which he often abuses to remain unduly formal with me.”

“It is only as befits you,” spoke Vestra.

“It often escapes him that we shared a childhood, and that I might think more highly of him than a servant.”

“Shared a childhood…,” I supplied.

“He was the son of the butler at my family’s estate,” she explained.

“I see. I admit I was expecting someone very different; Vestra told me that you were his benefactor.”

“Of a sort. I own the Boreas Club. Many men and women pass through these doors who are grateful to me for creating an environment where they might leave their troubles at the doorstep for a time. Any such respectable establishment understands the value of gossip within its walls, and any person of esteem knows to gossip. Often Vestra comes to hear the expert word of a professional in a more personal and obliging atmosphere. I have several such properties which require learned help, and Vestra may request, too, the word of these hired men in revelation of a case.”

“And what services might these hired men supply?” I inquired ominously. She developed a visage of puzzlement.

“I think that Vestra has given you a sinister impression of the character of myself and my establishment. I really do mean hired professionals – accountants, engineers, clerks – there are members of the Enbarr constabulary that find in the Boreas Club a second home, and gladly consult with us, or to bring to Vestra’s attention public documents that aid him in cases. It is a mutually beneficial relationship, and so it continues. As well, there are many other patrons who are disinclined towards the police that find a sympathetic ear at the Boreas. I know that it is uncouth for the gossip of such an establishment to be brought outside its walls, but often it is in defence of an innocent life, and I could not remain silent if only to avoid infringing upon a lord or lady’s sensibilities.”

“So you do not, how should I say, facilitate those of ill repute.”

“I am sorry that Vestra has led you on like this. I know him to be very theatrical,” turning to him as he shifted uncomfortably. “Perhaps a tour of the facilities might help allay your suspicions. I will have Bamonte called up, and he will answer any questions you may have.”

“Not at all – it would be tactless to accept such a thing out of suspicion. I apologise for calling your honour into question based merely upon Vestra’s insinuations. I welcome your invitation with only the spirit of a gracious guest,” I replied.

“Vestra, you are free to join Mr. Von Aegir. In fact I think you should. Some socialising would do you some good. How many years have you patronised the Boreas, and the regular members hardly know you.”

“Anyone of any use is well equipped to come to me of their own accord.”

“And perhaps you will find that they are _all_ very useful to know,” she countered.

“Yes, your Grace.”

Duchess Von Hresvelg rang for Bamonte, and quickly a greying and studious looking man made his way into the room. The duchess relayed her request to him, politely bidding us a good day, and returned to her work as we were escorted out into the hall.

As Vestra and myself walked behind Bamonte, and in between him describing the facilities, introducing me to one or two curious socialites, I finally had the time to properly discern Vestra’s physical state; in the flurry of action of the past hour, I had wholly forgotten his arranged altercation of last night. The duchess nor anyone we had spoken with had called attention to the wound, and as I looked surreptitiously over to him, the red gouge was sufficiently obscured by his ebony fringe. Vestra himself seemed unhindered by it, but my concern remained.

“Mr. Bamonte would have something to tend your head, would he not?” I muttered to Vestra.

“I will address it upon our return to Orchard Street.”

“Do not be stubborn.”

He breathed a great put-upon sigh before speaking.

“Mr. Bamonte is very loyal to Duchess Von Hresvelg.”

“Yes,” I responded, perplexed. “Well that is very good.”

“And there is no need for the duchess to learn from him my regrettable blunders.”

“Surely she would forgive you something so inconsequential?”

“It is not the forgiving, but that she must not be disturbed from her work.”

“I think --”

“How can I convince you to cease this incessant preoccupation of yours, that does not involve the duchess?” he growled. I thought for a moment.

“We will go home, and you will let me attend you myself. Is this acceptable?”

“Hmph. If you must.”

It was that very same evening, Vestra recovered, and our shared space returned to its daily equilibrium after the troubled last four, that there was a knock upon our door. It was an unexpected visitation from Bran Von Ochs. I kindly invited him inside, expressing my startlement at seeing him again so soon. Vestra quickly joined us in the sitting room.

“I have come to amend my previous accusations against my cousin,” began Von Ochs. “Just yester-day I mustered the courage to confront her, and she professed a great remorse at the pain she had inadvertently caused me. She admitted that, indeed, she was very discomfited by the scar upon her wrist, obscuring it with product as Mr. Vestra so astutely posited. She also recounted to me a story of when we were children that only Monica could have known,” he enumerated, rolling the brim of his hat between his fingers. “So it is with a great embarrassment that I return to you, gentlemen, and relieve you of solving this silly misunderstanding with which I have frittered away your valuable time.”

“Well! This is an unforeseen development,” I elated.

“Yester-day, you say,” interjected Vestra, and the worrisome look on Von Ochs’ face must have mirrored my own.

“Er, yes. Why, is something the matter?” Von Ochs responded.

“And you met at the baron’s residence.”

“I knew that there would be no way but to meet _tête-à-tête_ to broach such a subject.”

“She takes a very peculiar schedule, doesn’t she? When did you find the time?”

“In around noon, I took a long luncheon, as I feared I would not catch her in the evening.”

“I suppose you would have spoken with your father? He had some things to say to her as well.”

“I may have seen someone who resembled my father leaving in a cab as I neared the place, but I cannot say that I spoke to him, no. I would have avoided it entirely if he had remained. Am I under suspicion now, Mr. Vestra, in my own case? Otherwise I cannot fathom this inane line of interrogation, and am through with having to amuse you.”

“You would have done a passable job of spinning a convincing tale, Mr. Von Ochs, had I not known the truth beforehand.”

Von Ochs paled, knuckles white as he gripped his hat.

“Please do not look any further into this matter. No good will come of it. I cannot tell you why, for it may put my well-being in danger. I have been fortunate so far in my life, and I do not wish to see how far that fortune goes.”

“What does Francis think of all this? Or have you not told him?”

Von Ochs looked as though he had been struck.

“I have told him,” he gasped. “Of course I have.” He recollected himself somewhat before going on. “Perhaps it would be best to continue this conversation privately, Mr. Vestra.”

“My omission of your circumstances in speaking with Von Aegir was because I deemed it superfluous to my investigation; your coming here to-day has convinced me that that is no longer the case. You have hired me for a job, Mr. Von Ochs, but if you insist that the job is done, you are welcome to leave.”

“Please,” I interjected forcefully, with an accusing look towards my friend, “do not let Vestra convince you of something you will regret. I do not know the extent of your troubles, but I know that I could not let you go without at least hearing them out.”

Von Ochs did not seem pacified by my sincere admission. He turned instead to Vestra’s guarded gaze, as though asking some question, flashing momentarily to me again before returning. There was a minute softening in Vestra's icy mien, and it appeared to diffuse the well of despair in which Von Ochs was suffering, for he began to speak then in a trepid tone.

“I received a letter last evening from someone named Elisabet Kronya, introducing herself as the woman presently impersonating Monica Von Ochs. She discovered that I had hired a detective to look into her. She threatened in no uncertain terms that, should I fail to dismiss a certain Hubert von Vestra, that I and Francis would be threatened with exposure,” he went on. And I was startled with the sudden realisation of his predicament, thinking back to that single conversation we had had, and it was a particular fear that I was no stranger to. “I was assured that there would be no way to track her, that she was confident enough to put her name to paper at no consequence to her discovery. It was a volatile and brazen hand that wrote such a letter. I could not risk going against it.”

“I suspect that she is also blackmailing your father over something to do with Monica and the baroness,” Vestra pressed.

“If he was, I can assure you, he would not tell me. But somehow I find it very hard to care,” he said bitterly. “And I hardly think it matters anyway. So if you would forget the matter, as I invited you to do before, I would like to see this woman married and disappeared with my family’s title as quickly as possible, so that I might return to some semblance of normalcy.”

“They will not let this thing go,” I said solemnly.

“I know,” he said with misty eyes, “but what can I do but rely on the assurance of strangers?”

“There must be something to be done against this Kronya woman,” I ruminated, addressing Vestra to my left.

“Must there be?” he responded, turning his head to me minutely, exposing a sliver of his citrine eye through the veil of his hair.

“We might steal into the Sonnenfeld residence again and find something incriminating there. As well, she must be married, no? What if the ceremony were unsuccessful?”

Vestra took a dramatic pause, turning ever so slightly away from me again.

“She is completely confident in her abilities, or those of her employer; for such a delicate scenario she has put herself in, she makes no mind for delicacy, which inclines me towards the latter. Either her confederate is a fool and only by some stroke of luck has persevered in crime without the attention of the authorities, or is adroit and careful, and in this case, would never allow Miss Kronya the opportunity to incriminate herself. At the baron’s, at least, you will not find anything of hers.

“In regards to the wedding, I do not want to imagine what ill-conceived design you have concocted to stop it; and when you should fail, because you have gone despite my warning, she will suspect Mr. Von Ochs, and he will pay the price of your good will.”

“I know,” I capitulated, watching as he observed the crowd of opera-goers from our box, “but how could I abide such an injustice? And to call on the police would only be to invite another.”

“Foremost we had been tasked with uncovering the impostor’s identity, but the ultimate aim was to restore the cousin, to uncover her whereabouts, was it not?” he said wryly.

“Does that mean that you will still pursue the case?"

“I have said no such thing,” but there was a smirk upon his face.

We settled into a companionable silence, and I regarded the royal blue velvet of the curtains enclosing our private box, the filigree of opulent gold edging every surface that could reasonably accommodate it. It had been an age since I had visited the Mittelfrank, longer still that I had had the opportunity to appreciate it from such an advantageous position.

“I never asked how you came by these tickets,” I said. “I thought you had no interest in the opera.”

“It was through the generosity of Miss Arnault. She was insistent that I accept her gift, and it occurred to me that you would never forgive me should I refuse.”

“On her behalf, I might not. And I still have not completely forgiven you, you know, for making me think that you were party to some sort of syndicate.”

“I have no need for your forgiveness, only your tacit understanding.”

“I know that you find kind words quite useless, but I have had much success with them, and really cannot agree with your sentiments of wordless coöperation,” I huffed in a bit of a temper.

“Then consider this a formal apology for my behaviour,” he said, visibly pained from the effort, but with a rare and precious sincerity, “I am sorry.”

I was stunned to silence for a moment, unsure how to continue now that Vestra had been so acquiescent.

“Just, do not lie to me,” I managed. “Please.”

The house lights dimmed, signalling the advent of the play, and Vestra stood, fastening the buttons of his dress coat.

“If you would excuse me, Von Aegir. I have some business to attend to.”

“Business? What business could you possibly have?”

“Hanneman Essar. I spied him several boxes down the hall.”

“I know of him. He is a professor at Garreg Mach, correct? But he is a scholar of history and relics, what use could you have of him?”

“He neglected a meeting we had arranged, and I think he needs a lashing,” he said, moving to the door. “With a good bull whip.”

“When you say things like that with such a look upon your face, I almost think that you are serious.”

“Goddess forbid,” and here he let out a villainous black chuckle.

I let him go, not without resentment, and shortly the theatre was brimming with the haunting melody of the contralto upon the stage. She sung of an ideal world, the glory and dawn of a new age, promised bounty for the mistreated masses. She is joined by her war council, preparing for the coming engagement with the Kingdom armies. They gather round a grand table, six frenetic bodies moving as one but for her at its head, the picture of preëminence, clothed in the regalia of her ancestors, and unperturbed by the outbursts of her generals.

She is above it. She is alone.

I perceived that some time had passed, but I had become so engrossed in the tale being acted out before me that I scarcely noticed Vestra’s return. He reclined gracefully into his chair, flicking the tails of his ebony coat away from him as he sat.

“You have been gone nearing an hour,” I proclaimed plaintively, peering at my timepiece. “Ever was I a fool to think that you would invite me to the opera to _watch_ the opera, or perhaps that you enjoyed my company.”

“Why? Do you not enjoy the company?” he purred, a whisper of a smirk upon his sculpted visage that his lounging posture conveyed in spades. It was as though his confidence were enhanced in darkness, and it radiated out from him at the moment. I struggled to level a piercing retort but found that anything that came to me would only embolden him further. I sputtered feebly, and ultimately returned my attention to the opera, painfully aware of his deprecating chuckle. Presently, Miss Arnault entered with a trio of sanguine young soldiers. I leant forward in my seat as the melody of her voice carried to my eager ears.

“Seeing as we have taken the time to come all this way,” Vestra murmured, the whisper of his lips at my ear, “and at the behest of Miss Arnault, it would be discourteous of me to squander this occasion by neglecting nearly half of it; and I see that you are aching to regale me of its captivating narrative.”

“I might insist that you return to watch the opera in its entirety, to fully capture the virtuosity of it,” I asserted, crossing one leg over the other, a particular buoyant and airy feeling whirling in my breast. “But I know you to prefer infiltration of a seamy opium den than to appreciation of the musical arts, so I suppose I must condescend to describe it to you instead.”

“Please do.”

“The Battle of the Eagle and Lion is a re-imagining of two historical events: the War of the Eagle and Lion, of course; and the Battle of Gronder. It is left ambiguous whether the eponymous leaders of each army are actually animals or whether it is merely a conceit. We have now arrived at the armistice. The eagle and lion both hope for an end to the bloodshed: the lion for peace; the eagle for domination in the war she has initiated. This meeting represents a pivotal moment of reconciliation as the two reminisce of the bond of companionship they shared in the bountiful land of their forebears; the shared dream and fleeting moment of possibility.

“But it fails. For the pain they have caused each other, they are unable to come to forgiveness. They leave bitter, only to reunite at the fields of Gronder, to meet their ends.”

“You declaim that the armistice shows a failed attempt to recapture the time when they were young and innocent, but the eagle had all but forgotten their time together as children; clearly it is meant to exhibit the fickleness of youth, the folly of sentimentality. She is freeing herself of the meaningless bonds created out of obligation.”

“I suppose that is one way to look at it,” I responded pensively, watching the subtle movement of shadows on his pale throat as he spoke. “But you were watching after all.”

“I hardly require all my concerted faculties to understand the course of such a piece.”

“But perhaps you might enjoy it more if you had. And surely even a man like yourself should sympathise with the concept of brotherhood in your relation with Duchess Von Hresvelg?”

“I associate with the duchess for no perceived familial obligations, but because I respect her of my own steadfast regard.”

“What of siblings?”

“I have three younger. They lived with my mother, outside of the Von Hresvelg estate. I had little to do with any of them. And you do not have any,” a half-question.

“I learned of an elder sister, but we had never met. The servants in the household would tell me nothing of her, and so I came to the conclusion that she was,” I paused, “how should I say, before my father’s time. However, I think it is really a shame that I could not have known her.”

I looked over to Vestra, attempting to gauge his response. He did not look surprised, but he rarely ever did exhibit anything aside from a forbidding stoicism or sinister amusement. Presently upon the stage a battle had begun. I was vaguely aware of the mounting music as it heralded the confrontation between the two monarchs, a quiet unease fluttering in my stomach.

“I did not broach the subject before,” I began slowly, “When Mr. Von Ochs arrived yesterday, why were you so sure that I would not go on to say anything against him?”

Vestra stared silently over the theatre for so long that I feared he had not heard me.

“I know you, Von Aegir,” he spoke soberly, “to be faithful in all matters. To be unerringly loyal and true. You champion an indefatigable virtue that even I cannot deny.”

“It does not mean that I would have understood.”

“No,” he said, eyes fixed onto my own.

There is a certain weight to the atmosphere in a place of worship. The air is thick with the memories that flow unbidden from the mouths of its inhabitants. It remembers those who frequent it, those who come only out of necessity, those that merely pass through. I am often comforted by the thought that I, too, will be remembered. But what of Kronya?

I had gone out that morning with some vague intent, solidifying it as I sat in a carriage speeding towards St. Cethleann’s, but my resolve was never to be tested. As I hastened up the church steps, a myriad designs of how I would disrupt the proceedings circling in my mind, I felt only a sinking feeling of having been fooled. My fears were realised as I passed into the heavy stone arches of its inner sanctum to find it empty. There would be no ceremony today.

Kronya had gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lorenz is really enjoyable to describe. He's one of the few characters who does not suffer from Perfectly Proportioned Anime Face.
> 
> Also, I would complain about AO3 not knowing the difference between british and american spelling, but neither do I.


	4. The Picture of Affection Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is unbeta'd.  
> (Also posted at 5am, but that should really stay between me and the birds.)

Mrs. Monica Von Ochs [I read], estranged daughter of the recently departed Baron Von Ochs, returned to the country from her extended sojourn in the Kingdom to succeed her father, has just yester-day, this 10th of the Great Tree Moon, been married to Count Octavian of Mateus. All fortune and well-wishes are extended to the newlywed couple in their shared life together in the Oches.

“She even got a spot in the evening paper,” I said incredulously. “Just to taunt us.”

“It is consistent with her character,” responded Vestra as he stood by the range, calling the kettle to a boil. “And spares us one inconvenience, at least.”

“Has she truly gone to the Oches, do you think? And I wonder who this Count Octavian is. Another accomplice, perhaps?”

“I am not completely convinced that such a man exists at all. Every new actor requires a new level of deception, whereas a properly forged document serves just as well. As to her whereabouts,” he shook his head slightly, “she could be anywhere, I imagine, but settling down with her fortune in a backwater like the Oche Mountains would be tedious to such a woman.”

“Do you think that she will keep her word with Von Ochs,” I asked, watching Vestra from my seat at the window.

“If she were acting alone, I scarcely think that she would, but I trust the other to remain discreet; blackmail requires coöperation between both parties, after all. I suggested this to Mr. Von Ochs, but he and Mr. Urien were prepared to follow through on their intentions to travel to Faerghus for the time being.”

“I am glad that they have decided to err on the side of caution, but it is detestable that they must do so at all,” I said, tossing the paper onto a side table. “But why tell anyone a date, to have no ceremony?”

“Because they are duly careful. Why ever would one give information outright when they could obscure instead?”

“It is certainly your preferred method,” I replied sourly.

“And yours is to jump headlong into incompetence, as evidenced by your recent ride to St. Cethleann’s,” he accused, pulling a bag of coffee beans from the cupboard. “But I cannot truly be angered, for I had already predicted it.”

“I shall feel outraged in your stead, then. What a dreadful thing, coming up to those doors to find a chapel bare. Quite like that weightless, yet sinking feeling upon taking another step, only for one’s foot to meet nothing but air.”

“I am unfamiliar with the feeling. I find that the problem is easily solved if one looks before stepping,” pulling the kettle from the range as it began to whistle. “Tea?”

“Yes, thank you.”

I joined him at the breakfast-table, the late spring sun casting rectangles of yellow light over its surface as Vestra placed a steaming cup and saucer before me. I inhaled its deep and earthy aroma, for once not overpowered by the sharp scent of Vestra’s blend. Lady made herself be known, sitting by my feet, and I idly scratched behind her ears. Vestra and I spoke for a while of idle things I now scarcely remember.

“And now I must insist that you join me, after we have had our drinks of course, in aiding Miss Casagranda for a short half hour. There is a beautiful concertina screen in her rooms that she needed returned to a friend. She told me she was to hire someone, but of course I volunteered myself, as it is really the least I could do after how obliging she has been to me since I have come to Orchard Street.”

“And how, precisely, does this involve myself?”

“Your name may have sprung up in conversation, and I knew you would welcome an opportunity to show her your appreciation.”

“You seem to have fundamentally misunderstood the relationship I have with Miss Casagranda; we are not friends, we are hardly acquaintances. The only thing we share is a contract as owner and tenant.”

“This Almyran Pine blend is truly divine, Vestra,” I sighed, finishing my cup. “I could not have done a better job of it myself. If you are ready, we should be going down, or it will be a bit late soon.”

I stood, fully expecting Vestra to make an excuse and vanish to his room; but to my eternal delight, he followed me instead – clearly aggravated, but coöperative. I led the way through the hall, knocking swiftly on Miss Casagranda’s door. It was opened with a particular vigour – carelessly, I could say – and on the other side stood Miss Casagranda, hair dishevelled, shawl askew, and leaning heavily on the door-frame.

“Oh!” I exclaimed, frantically looking anywhere but on the woman before me, “I am – excuse me, if this is a bad time --”

“Von Aegir! I thought you might be – it does not matter who I thought you might be,” she chirped, slamming the door closed again. “Just a moment, don’t you dare run off, just --”

“We had arranged to move the concertina screen from your rooms...”

“There!” And the door flew open to a marginally recovered former songstress of the esteemed Mittelfrank Opera House. “Yes, that was to-day, wasn’t it? Come in, um, yes. Oh, Mr. Vestra has come as well, how delightful. The screen is in the corner, if you might carry it to the foyer.” I walked over to the far wall, rolling up my sleeves as Vestra followed silently, positioning himself on the opposite side of the concertina. “Thank you for this, boys. I do appreciate it.”

“Please do not hesitate to ask me in the future, especially for such small things such as this,” I said, folding the screen and taking hold of the bottom half.

“You might restrain that tendency,” Vestra hummed, “before you promise something more than is within your means.”

“Do not worry about me.”

“Be careful around the corner there,” Miss Casagranda warned, “I have kept it in miraculously good condition; it would be a travesty – and just my luck – should it be damaged now.” We slowly navigated into the hall, Miss Casagranda already at the entrance and peering out onto the street. “And there he is already. I hope he has not been waiting long.”

She walked to the kerb where a flat-bedded wagon awaited. Vestra and I heaved the screen aboard, and once secured, I asked whether her friend would not be here to oversee the transportation.

“Is this the same friend that you mentioned to me before? The one from the Mittelfrank?”

“No, he is very rarely out,” she said, looking about surreptitiously. “Has Vestra gone already?”

I looked to my right, where Vestra had stood not a moment ago, to find nothing but empty air.

“It appears he has,” I responded.

“Awfully quick, isn’t he?” she waved her hand dismissively. “Well, I hardly see my friend anyway. Merely a short letter that outlined his request for the concertina returned. He had finally found a more comfortable digs in the city that could properly accommodate it.”

“That is a shame. I was expecting to introduce myself.”

“Another time. Let us go in, hmm?”

We passed into the shade of the foyer as the sound of the wagon faded into the distance, and I accompanied Miss Casagranda back to her own door.

“Before I retire for the evening,” I spoke, “there is something I have been meaning to revisit. I have not yet told you the reason that I went into medicine. I believe it was several months now that you broached the subject. You will have to forgive me for my behaviour that day, I fear I was downright morbid.”

“There is no reason at all to apologise, my dear. Even a spirited woman like myself has a down day or two.”

“I know that I can ever rely on your consideration and understanding,” I smiled thoughtfully. “In any case, the reason that I was convinced to medicine can be attributed to my father; he very much enjoyed the _soir_ _é_ _es_ and state dinners, fawned over the regard of his peers, and cared for the concerns of his constituents only insofar as would have him reëlected. Citizenry had gone missing in his own hometown, and he was more concerned with a quote in the Enbarr papers. He was not a well admired man, I new that. He did not respect his position nor his noble title. I am not reluctant now to say so.

“I applied myself to business in a vague sense, with the intention of following in his footsteps, but then my mother disappeared – I am sure you know this by now. My father hardly seemed to notice. This was the tipping point, I suppose. I was compelled to distance myself; and so fuelled my hasty decision to abscond to the city, and move on to medicine.”

“Thank you for telling me,” she said fondly.

“But perhaps you have something on your mind as well?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, your misaligned buttons,” I began as her head whipped down to her own chest, “or perhaps your hair. Unless it is a new style that has escaped my attention, in which case, it is very lovely!”

“No, Von Aegir, I am afraid it is not,” she sighed, defeated. “Nor is it a singular occurrence.”

“Was it Mr. Eudemius again?”

“Don’t tell me that you have spoken with him?”

“No, I have not. Why?”

“Oh, no reason, really. But right now I really prefer to speak on anything else, and avoid embarrassing myself too much.”

“Why should you be embarrassed? That these scores of men do not recognise your wit and beauty is their own failing. I say do not settle for any less than you deserve. In a battle you must not go with any thought but victory in your mind or you will find defeat in every small action taken in error. Love is a battle, too, is it not?”

“Oh, to be young and once again see love as a glorious battle, and not a harrowing war of attrition,” she sighed ruefully. “But if you do not mind it, Von Aegir, I would not mind retiring for the evening, myself.”

“Of course, I have kept you. Good evening, Miss Casagranda.”

I awoke from a late-afternoon siesta to the distant ring of a bell and the wooden sound of an impatient knock. I sprung to the door, tripping over a twinge in my knee, the vague impression of a dream clinging to the inside of my eyelids. There was no one in the hall, only a paper-wrapped parcel in the crook of the door frame. I took it inside, slipping a small card free from the red ribbon that fastened it.

My dear Von Aegir [it read],

Enclosed, you will find the promised copy of _Matis_. Apologies that I could not deliver it in person, but hopefully this signed copy will suffice as recompense.

Regards, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester

I smiled to myself, pulling the ribbon loose and plucking delicately at a folded corner to reveal the slim, bound volume beneath. I hastily drew my armchair over to the window so that I might read comfortably by the warm light streaming through. I settled in, opening the cover, still the smell of ink wafting up, and with the satisfying crackle of untouched bindings.

It was a story of a man of the bourgeoisie, young and bright, and eager to make his place in the world. He finds modest digs in the city to begin this new life. There is a small courtyard out front, squared off by a high stone wall. The whole of the space is dripping with ivy, lined with leaves and petals of all colours: it is a pinpoint of nature amongst the heavy brick and smoke of the city. Often he sees a man there, tending the flowers.

“Oleander”, says the man, nodding as he points out each plant. “Monkshood, and foxglove.”

“They are lovely.”

“For several years I have grown plants in the courtyard so that this fraction of the world might find a bit of beauty; but then a certain man should appear, and only a few days of him has my yearly blossoms lost to his loveliness.”

“That is a bad joke,” says Matis with a gentle moue of his lips.

“How are you to know that it is one, if you do not even know me?”

“Perhaps, I will have to know you, then.”

He speaks with the stranger daily, until he is a stranger no more. They sit together on sweet summer days, the scent of oleander and the smell of him, blending, inseparable, until they are the same bewitching memory. Time passes.

Matis returns home late one night, as he is wont to do, the streets familiar and unfamiliar. The shadows speak to him in different ways, the lamps lining the street casting the world into an array of dull greys. The reassuring stone wall around the courtyard is no longer a bastion to inure him against the chaos of the world outside, but a cage that threatens of greater dangers within. As he passes over the cobbled court, it is with a heavy step. For all he muffles the sound, the more he hears. The scratch of leather on stone, the rasp of breath on the dead air, choking. His hesitant gait fades to a crawl, fades to nothing. He has stopped completely. The foxglove bows at his feet with the weight of their blooms, and the echo of footsteps does not cease. A whisper unsettles the hair at the nape of his neck. He feels keenly that coagulating air of a space consumed in something living. He feels a stabbing gaze upon his back, for which he pushes himself upon, a knot of anticipation in his breast. The feather-light touch of fingertips at his waist, a fearful promise. In the moonlight, it is the pale glint of a white hand that makes him turn –

It was at this moment that the front door opened, and I startled in my seat, blinking the creeping image of a ghostly hand from my mind.

“The Military History of Dagda this time?” inquired Vestra, locking the bolt shut behind him.

“It is a bit different from the usual fair,” I breathed. “Gloucester has sent it to me. It gave me a bit of a scare, to be truthful. I have not done much else to-day. And how has yours treated you?”

“Well enough, I suppose.”

“Yes?” I said, enticing him to elaborate.

“I have been by the Southside docks,” he relented. He looked to my still eager expression with distaste. “It is a personal project.”

“I should not hesitate to help you.”

“If you ever knew what was good for you, the thought would never cross your mind.”

“I will know it yet,” I said resolutely.

“I should hope not,” Vestra said in a dim tone, turning into the other room. The clock on the wall over his head alerted me to the quickly approaching evening hour, and my stomach protested in realisation.

“Would you like to join me for supper?” I inquired.

“...The thought is not wholly detestable.”

“Good,” I grinned, “But before we go, there is something I must do.”

I folded the slip of ribbon to mark my page, and upon setting the book at the window sill, went to my bed-chamber. I returned to Vestra with a rectangular, crimson box in hand.

“Happy birthday, Vestra.”

He blinked once. Twice.

“I see. This and the dinner are only out of obligation toward this arbitrary day of celebration.”

“Of course it is not out of obligation, my friend. I do it because I want to. Unless saying otherwise would make you more likely to accept.”

“I cannot abide either way. To receive without reciprocation is reprehensible,” he said thinly, suddenly excusing himself and stalking up to his room.

“Vestra!” I called to his retreating back. I slumped onto the settee with a plaintive sigh, the box in hand bumping against my knee sharply as I did. “To think I would offend him with but a simple gift. And the supper invitation was hardly out of the usual. Though I suppose it is inadmissible for to-night. A shame, I was looking forward to the company.”

To my bewilderment, Vestra returned immediately after, and I jumped to my feet again in the hope that he had reconsidered.

“It is abhorrent to receive something from you,” he said, drawing a box of his own from behind his back “without giving something in return. I had meant for you to receive this on the 30th, but I suppose you must have it to-day.”

I took the gift from him, gingerly shaking it at my ear, attempting to guess at its contents while Vestra took his to a knife without ado, having pulled one from the inside of his black waistcoat. He peeled the paper away to read the royal blue script on the wooden case beneath.

“Ailell... Red Mountain Company Whetstones.”

“I feared that you would not care to celebrate but surmised that a practical gift would be acceptable to you. Something with which to sharpen your array of knives.”

“I had no idea you ever noticed.”

“Well, most civilised gentlemen do not carry an arsenal hidden in their belt. I thought it prudent not to draw attention to your more… eccentric habits.”

“It is wonderful, Von Aegir. Thank you,” he said in a low voice, and so distracted by the expression of admiration on his features, did I nearly forget my own gift. I carefully untied the velvet ribbon which secured the rectangular box, and lifted the lid.

“What is this?” I said with awe.

“The dagger of Imperial Prime Minister Derick Von Aegir, with which he thwarted an attempt on his life by the Almyran assassin Sorcha. An imitation of it, rather.”

“I cannot accept such a gift.”

“It could not be that it is deficient in any way.”

“No, I could not have expected anything more astounding.”

“Then there is no issue,” said Vestra. “Have you a place in mind for supper?”

“I did not, but - “

“Then we shall go to the usual. You may pay for us both, if you would feel better for it.”

“That was my intention from the very beginning.”

“Shall we?”

The next two weeks passed quickly, the routines of lectures and stream of Vestra’s potential clients keeping us both occupied. The Great Tree Moon had come and gone, Harpstring following in the very same fashion. It was not until the arrival of the Garland Moon and a particular government official to Orchard St. that such a singular case as Kronya’s should present itself again.

I had returned home, shaking my umbrella out in the foyer and drawing the door close behind me, the deluge outside now merely a subdued rumble through the eaves. There was a somehow familiar man on the stair who passed by without a word. I found Vestra sitting in his armchair by the hearth.

“ _Another_ client?” I inquired.

“The rain seems to draw them out. Like earthworms.”

“A vital component to a sound foundation,” I supplied. Vestra only scowled. “Ah, the rare occasion that you should agree with me.”

“I said nothing.”

“Exactly.”

I left my umbrella to dry by the coat stand, and drew out the assortment of post from my satchel: a receipt stamped with the coat of Garreg Mach, a thin postcard, and two identical thick cream envelopes.

“Isn’t it lovely, Vestra? Von Ochs has written us. He and Mr. Urien have recently arrived in Rome, it says. They have not quite accustomed to the weather, but they hear that the Rhodos Coast is beautiful at this time of year, and plan to visit in the coming weeks.”

“They do not sound terribly concerned for their situation.”

“They are making the best of it as they can, I am sure,” I replied, walking over to place the card on the mantle. I splayed out both of the cream envelopes that remained. “It would appear that someone has misplaced your mail.”

I learned over to Vestra and extended the one envelope that bore his name. He took it with a wrathful glare fixed upon its smooth surface.

“The incompetence of the Adrestia Postal Service knows no bounds, it seems.”

“You have gotten the letter delivered right to your own hand – I do not think that things could have gone any better,” I countered, slipping a thumb under the seal of wax, as Vestra took a blade to the side of his.

Annual Noa Ball [it read]

The Company of Duke Ferdinand Von Aegir is requested at Azure Hall, the 28th of the Verdant Moon, at 7 o’clock P. M.

Enbarr, Garland Moon, 1886

“I see that Viscount Nuvelle has not yet tired of the yearly farce,” said Vestra dismissively.

“So you _were_ invited,” I frowned.

“Was it in your head that the identical envelopes were coincidental?”

“Well, I have never seen you there before.”

“No, you would not have seen me.”

“I would think it opposite to your very nature, in fact.”

“I have a duty towards Duchess Von Hresvelg, appearances to maintain. I would be a fool to overlook the value of a sympathetic noble, and few opportunities better than this to observe them.”

“It will be quite different to go now in comparison to the last years’ experiences. I have not seen so many of my old acquaintances, I have been so occupied as of late.”

“They have certainly not been forthcoming in their own time to you. One would think that you had gone the way of your father in the value of attention the noble class has afforded you since your return.”

“You mean to say that I am no longer worth their time?” I said sourly.

“I mean to say that they are no longer worth yours.”

“You know, Vestra, your compliments would be much improved if you led with the tail end. You might consider it.”

“If I should ever fall so low as to align myself with consideration, it will surely be only with my dying breath.”

“You have many years ahead of you yet, and, I am sure, ample opportunity.”

I took my seat by the window, watching Vestra as he tipped a cup of coffee to his lips, white shirtsleeves tightened fast round his narrow wrist, the languid curve of his crossed legs.

“The man I passed on the stair – he was not the usual riffraff, was he?” I asked. “He seemed familiar, though I could not tell you why.”

“Duke Gerth, Minister of Foreign Affairs. He would hire me for recovery of documents that he insisted threatened a long and bloody war with Dagda should they become known.”

“And you took him on, I trust?”

“He refused me any specifics, and left very swiftly when he learned that I would not take the case without more information.”

“Then I suppose you have already predicted my opinion on the matter,” I said sharply.

“He will return properly repentant once he has time to consider his vulnerable position,” Vestra said to pacify me, “and then I may be more inclined towards his amelioration.”

“I should hope so.”

Just then there was a knock on the door.

“It is not the minister,” said Vestra without a sparing glance toward the sound.

I answered the door, and true to his word, it was not Duke Gerth.

“Gloucester, my dear fellow, what are doing here?” I exclaimed. “I told you that I would be round for you at the dormitories.”

“Nonsense. I could not subject you to it in its present state. All the halls are littered with the personal effects of Garreg Mach’s most negligent graduates, celebratory detritus a month overdue to be discarded. How it could have deteriorated so severely in my short absence, I could not tell you.”

“How did your trip to Derdriu treat you?” I asked, ushering him in, “Your family is well?”

“I will wait in the hall if it is all right with you, the rain has not let up,” he responded, indicating his damp shoes. I nodded, looking for my purse and keys, surreptitiously slipping Gloucester’s gift into the pocket of my trousers. “They are all as well as ever. My new lodgings in the city are established, and everything moved from the dormitories; it is all ready to receive me once I return to the Alliance.”

“I cannot tell you how sad I will be to see you go.”

“And I, you, dear Von Aegir, but let us save these good-byes for when they are due.”

“Of course. We have a party to attend.” I quickly addressed Vestra, still in the sitting room, “I will be out for a while, so do not hesitate to retire before I return.”

He hummed in acknowledgement, and I drew the door behind me.

“I see he has not changed,” Gloucester muttered as we made our way downstairs.

“I find that he has changed very much, though yes, Vestra would prefer one to think otherwise.” I opened the door out onto the street, and Gloucester and I found ourselves waiting for a cab, sheltered by the meagre awning and our collective umbrellas. I became distracted by a vague feeling of having forgotten something.

“Gloucester, now I recall! I still have not given you my impressions of _Matis_.”

“That is true. I admit it had not been foremost on my mind this past while.”

“Would I be unwelcome in making them known?”

“Not in the least,” Gloucester responded.

“The prose is impeccable as ever. As I am not a horticultural expert by any means, I was not immediately aware of that poisonous imagery of the neighbour, but it did not take away from my perception of him at all. The dichotomy of alluring and poisonous both; surely it is a mirror of the dual life that Matis must live.”

“Your praise is never without poignancy and insight,” Gloucester exulted. “It was my own suggestion to the group to employ this floral conceit.”

“But you might have warned me of the supernatural aspects,” I said with a chuckle, “I was not expecting to be so shaken by a novel purporting to be a romance. And oh, to fall in love with a ghost.”

“I feared it might ruin your perception of the story, to know such a thing beforehand.”

“It is the preference of the reader, I should think, though I prefer to know myself.”

“If anything more should come of the Rhymers, I will be sure to warn you next time.”

“Yes, I very much enjoyed it,” I said thoughtfully, looking out across the street to the darkened courtyard, now barren of its regular guests. “But it was a very sad conclusion, was it not?”

“I suppose it was,” Gloucester spoke over the relentless thrum of rain and the growing staccato rhythm of hooves on stone.

“Tell me: was he real, in the end?”

It was the morning of the 14th that I shared my final good-byes with Gloucester, effusive promises of letters sent and vacations to Derdriu. For a time afterwards, I was still preoccupied with an anxious agitation, and so I took Lady out to the park grounds in an attempt to dispel it. Vestra joined me, and we walked arm in arm over the brick path as Lady tumbled in the grass a short distance ahead. The sky was a periwinkle colour, clouded but not overcast for once, sun shining intermittent light over us. I readjusted my arm in the crook of Vestra’s elbow, leaning into him slightly and only where I could, to allay the soreness in my right knee.

“Either make use of me or do not,” he intoned. “I know that your leg has been troubling you.”

“Ahem, I think I shall, thank you,” I said sheepishly. “It must be the humidity. Mrs. Toller would warn the same fate on me, though I could not have anticipated suffering it so early in my years.”

Vestra said nothing, but continued to look ahead. As the active trill of some bird grew in volume, I came to realise that it was that Vestra had been focused upon the particular tree from which the noise was coming. I stopped us at the base of it to admire the dark flock perched among the pale leaves.

“Wyverns,” I elated.

“They are glorified pigeons.”

“It was rare to ever see one in Drothin,” I said, craning my neck to admire their ruddy plumage. “And I would be inclined to call them more like a bat than a bird. You know, not five hundred years ago, they were great monstrous beasts. Not feathered but scaled, with antlers like a deer, and long spiked tails. I have read, large enough for a fully armoured soldier to ride into battle.”

“That is one theory.”

“Even to this day such beasts exist. Though Fodlan has many small breeds of wyvern, that is not the case the world over. For example, Dagda, with their long history of military customs, refrained from breeding them down for household pets, and still maintain wyverns with wingspans of nearly six feet. Think of the variation found in hounds, for example; would it be so unreasonable to develop it in other species?”

“If Dagda had such creatures, we would be sure to know of them. They would be remiss to overlook the military applications.”

“Of course their use as weapons would be your foremost thought,” I shook my head.

Vestra pulled us away, and we resumed walking.

“I imagine the Ten Elites made an appearance in your research,” he said.

“Why would they?”

“Wyverns the size of horses and Heroes who live for centuries: they are both puerile fairy-tales.”

“You are often lacking in imagination, Vestra, and now you lack in scope. I will see you proved wrong one day.”

“I look forward to the attempt,” and he chuckled in his sinister way. Lady trotted up beside us as we made our way back to the shade of 403. Vestra disappeared to his room for a time, and I began to prepare for tea. There was a frightening dearth of comestibles to be had, a plurality of empty tins. I peered out the window, gauging the temperature; it seemed to not have changed much in the recent hour. I elected for a quick jaunt to the grocer, bidding Lady behave while I was out, but Vestra stopped me on the stair.

“You will want to stay in for the after-noon. I am expecting a guest; no one you have met before – nor have I – but I anticipate that their conversation will be singularly illuminating,” he said.

“Your riddles never cease,” I sighed. “I will only be out a half-hour.”

“She will be here within the quarter.”

“Hmm.” I let my hand settle at my hip. “Very well. I will humour you this time. But I will go to Miss Casagranda’s for a moment.”

Thankfully she was not out, and was more than willing to part with a sleeve of tea biscuits and a scone or two. I returned to Vestra hovering by the window, one eye trained keenly upon the street. I put the kettle to boil and arranged a small platter – extravagant by no means but it would have to do. Presently, a kindly-looking woman of middle years came into the sitting room. Her appearance, however, would not be reflected in her speech, for she forwent any possible formalities, and immediately addressed Vestra with a distrustful tone.

“You are Hubert von Vestra, I take it.”

“Mrs. Elodie Taillefer,” he responded.

“How did you know to find me?”

“Mr. Oliver Von Ochs remained as the last personage of interest in this case, the last I knew that had knowledge of the events of sixteen years ago; but I was delaying contacting him, not knowing the methods that Mrs. Kronya used, in the likely event that he was being observed. Therefore, I turned outwards, someone of close relation but not blood. A servant of the manor, for example, who payed witness to the crime.”

She seemed unsatisfied with this explanation, but before she or I could interject, Vestra continued to elaborate.

“I had the house steward contacted, record of employ for all servants at the time. You had left the Von Ochs the same year as Monica had. The registry office had you married at Fhirdiad not six months later, and so it was no question to me why you had gone or where. But you did not stay abroad for long.”

“I had left my family with little to no explanation,” she responded, “under the pretext of adventure; and I was young and had no issue with a sudden relocation outside of the country. I welcomed it, even. My responsibility was to accompany Monica to her aunt, but to me at the time, the concept of freedom was far more immediate; and on the baron’s books, how could I refuse? I felt bad for the girl of course. She had done a horrific thing, but I think the severity of it had yet to penetrate my reality. I mean, the things the baroness did with no consequence or remorse; I was not a little embittered by that whole class of people. Then I got into some trouble over in Fhirdiad. It was not long before I felt compelled to leave. My husband was really the only good thing that I got out of it all.”

I took advantage of the lull in conversation to introduce myself and to voice my sympathies.

“I have only heard a fraction of your story, but it sounds a very formidable one. Perhaps you would like a seat and cup of tea while you tell us.”

“No need. I will not be long. I am really only here on the grace of my husband who convinced me that it was better to go than not.”

“Then we are very thankful to him,” I said, hesitant now to take a seat before a guest. Vestra, of course, seemed to hold no such reservations.

“Then if you would let me begin,” she declared.

“I was the scullery maid at the Von Ochs manor. Half the townspeople were employed there, it seemed. The baron was generally well liked. He made himself necessary, but it was just to get into our good graces, not because he ever cared. The baroness certainly did not. She had a very irascible and tempestuous nature. The family kept up good appearances whenever they had their dinner parties, in front of the new servants. For a long while I wondered how the baron could hide it, but I supposed that he was buying silence. Or maybe we _were_ just so loyal, eh? There was also something with the boy: he would be sequestered away to his room often, said he was sickly, but I think that he was just more than the baroness was willing to handle – well, in the very limited way that she raised him. She must have hated him. Hated him with some… unnatural fervour. Like she could blame him for all the world’s misdoings. And he was just a boy.

“Monica nor Baron Von Ochs were immune to her wrath. The child took it astoundingly well, but even I could see the way she dimmed when in proximity to her mother. So it was with this climate that tragedy befell the family.”

A vacant pall washed over her delicate features as she went on.

“I have always been a light sleeper, which did not pair well with a small room and three people, so I would occasionally walk the halls late at night. It was during one of these nighttime vigils that I heard a short halting scream, I thought. I questioned to myself whether it had been anything at all, it was so fleeting. But I followed it, in any case, to the baron’s study where I came upon a scene most gruesome.

“Two bodies lay on the floor, and Monica sat in a chair, bathed with blood, the baron kneeled at her feet, failing to draw that lifeless look from her eyes. He swore me to secrecy at the moment he noticed me in the door, but I could hardly register to what, exactly, that had happened. How so swiftly, how so softly? How could he ever expect to keep it from the rest of the house?

“But the truth of it was that the baroness had strangled her son in a frenzied rage – for being out of bed when he should not have, or for some other innocent thing, incidentally or deliberately killing him. And Monica had come upon the scene of her little brother in her hated mother’s clutches, and had set up her mother’s turn, snatching a letter opener from her father’s desk. Next in line, the father, second witness to the carnage. And so the line continued with myself, surely making it’s way down through the orders until it reached even the lamest little page boy.

“But nothing happened.

“That very night Von Ochs had the coachman spiriting Monica away to the Kingdom, myself there to watch over the nearly catatonic girl. She looked to me to be dead already. As we travelled, I scoured the papers for anything regarding the Von Ochs, to no avail: somehow he had managed to avoid scandal. Eventually their deaths were reported as a result of illness; for how could the rich be seen to suffer any sort of consequence? In any case, I made use of Von Ochs’ money until I had done with it, and I have not told a soul of it until now.”

“A young girl is forced to see her brother murdered by her own mother, and you speak about it in such a flippant manner,” I said, incredulously.

“I have not come to justify myself, Mr. Von Aegir, but to tell you that which you require.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Taillefer. If you must leave, we will not keep you any longer,” said Vestra.

She gathered her skirts and stood with a curtsy.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said, and left.

“I can hardly believe it,” I groaned, throwing myself upon a chair. “It is like some thing from a novel.”

“It is certainly extraördinary. I had gathered the general sentiment between them, the atmosphere of the house, but I could not have anticipated the specifics.”

“It is unspeakable,” I said, head between my hands, “the utmost foul tragedy. How could that poor girl have ever recovered?”

“It is far from unheard of. As common, in fact, as there is a word for it. Just as commonly as people go on to live a better life for the end of another.”

“I am not saying that the baroness did not deserve punishment, but Monica did not deserve to kill her.”

“Do you regret knowing?”

“I regret that I can do nothing, but no, I do not regret the knowing. I am – not glad for it – but it is preferable to not.” I jumped to my feet and paced the length of the room, turning to face Vestra still seated calmly in his armchair. “What does this mean for the case?”

“I requested Duchess Von Hresvelg to have Monica Von Ochs’ and Magia Von Ochs’ status determined, and the house was found empty, no sign of having been inhabited for some weeks.”

“So they may yet live.”

“I hesitated to have them look any deeper, for a concern that discovered bodies would cause Mrs. Kronya to call down upon Mr. Von Ochs the wrath of the Enbarr constabulary. But it is safe to assume that the true Von Ochs heiress will not be making an appearance in the near future.”

“We will catch Kronya,” I vowed.

“Not all stories must come to a happy end.”

“I know that.”

“And in time, you will come to accept it.”

It was a quiet morning, I at my breakfast and daily paper, and Vestra having presumably already gone out and returned from some errand; lying on the counter, his usual coffee and nothing else. He now sat stiffly at the writing desk nestled between the two windows of the sitting room, (that rare occasion that he should prefer my company while writing, over the darkened corners of his own bed-chambers), stooped over a sheet of cream coloured paper. The only sound was the periodic rustle of paper, and the scratch of a pen.

“You’re fussing,” said a voice from the other side of the room. I paused a moment before lowering my newspaper to the table.

“What’s that?”

“Your barber may have moved but that is no reason for me to suffer, as well,” he said without looking from his paper or ceasing his hand upon it.

“How do you know that my barber has moved?”

“You’ve let your hair grow out, based on how much you’ve been brushing it from your eyes just this morning. Your usual barber has moved – not gone out of business – otherwise you would have quickly found a new one. You are vacillating over convenience or loyalty; I insist the former.”

“It is just as you say,” said I, somewhat impressed, “but it was a bit rude."

After a moment, he ceased in his writing, turning towards me in his chair, looking as though on the cusp of speaking, staring towards the wall, a calculating look in the profile of his face.

“Perhaps --”, he spoke in an uncharacteristically halting manner,”If it would not offend – I possess some competence for the task.”

“Oh. Well... that is al --”

“Rather I mean to say that I’m quite experienced.”

“You… are?” Vestra maintained a stern look, fully facing me now, determined and waiting on my reply. “By all means then. Oh, now where did the scissors go, I had it just yester-day….”

Vestra put his papers into a locked drawer, methodically dried his pen and placed it upon the table in a deliberate fashion as I shuffled around searching for the necessary tools.

“Where shall you have me?” I inquired innocently upon recovering the shears from the depths of a small side table. Turning back towards Vestra, I nearly started to see him not a foot behind me, his slight height over mine suddenly overwhelming.

“Right here,” he murmured.

I was completely struck, until he gestured with his hand and the minute quirk of his brow towards the dining chair that he had moved into the centre of the room.

“W-why yes, of course.”

As I settled myself in, he threw a cloth bib around my shoulders, and neatly tied it off. Collecting the shears from me, he quickly went to work. I tensed at the first snip of the blade, but the sure way in which he moved served to assuage my misgivings. Occasionally, he would comb his fingers through my hair as though by nature, which presently elicited a yawn in me.

“You are right,” I said.

“You must be more specific.”

“Well I’ve yet to see the final result, but the process so far has been pleasant. I cannot stop myself from speculating on what occasion you would have to practice such a craft – unless you cultivated a passion for the profession in your youth?”

“In my youth, yes, but I had no intention on barbering, specifically.” Here he paused, only the sound of the shears meeting my ears. “I would cut the Duchess Von Hresvelg’s hair, tend to her as she needed.”

“An unorthodox job for the son of the butler? Surely there was someone more suited for the task.”

“Initially,” he said. “The incident at sea, you recall, that the Von Hresvelgs suffered – the duchess was on that vessel also, and her eight siblings. The ordeal left her untrusting of most other people. She would have no one but myself.”

“She had at least one person that she could confide in. I am sure that she was very thankful to have you.”

“I would not serve her because I prize anything so insignificant as gratitude.”

“No, of course not,” I said. “Does your father still serve the Von Hresvelgs?”

“That would be quite a feat, considering he is dead.”

“I am sorry.”

“Do not be. He was not a man worth missing.”

“Do you miss your other family?”

“Two of my siblings absconded to Myrddin several years ago in the pursuit of some farcical dream, while the youngest still resides with my mother in Bath, on the plains by the Morgaine. If I were ever in need of them, I would have no trouble seeking them out.”

“Ah, I am glad that you still have someone.” I straightened in my seat. “Sometimes I have wondered how things would be different, were my father still alive. If he had survived the attack like I had, would it have changed him at all. Would he have seen the error of his deceitfulness in the way he treated his position as minister and noble. How many times I could upbraid him for his dishonourable ways. Would he have come to me with his regrets, his fears,” my own eyes fixed upon the brown edge of the breakfast-table, “Could he finally admit my mother’s death? How wrong he was when he did nothing to look for her? Even after the beast, I had always wondered…,” and I stopped. I thought that I could not go on, to speak this ugly thing into existence.

“My father,” Vestra slowly began, “betrayed Duchess Von Hresvelg. He deserved his death.”

“What happened?” I murmured.

“It is not my story to tell.”

He continued to cut, the blade of the shears a cold line on the nape of my neck, and his confession still hovering in the air. It was easier like this, his presence but not the boring pressure of his gaze. Vestra would forgive me this.

“When we first met, you insinuated that someone close to my father had killed him; and I responded with anger – rightfully, because I could not go on without defending the honour of those in my household – but I fled in fear, because I could not fully deny the accusation against myself.” Vestra continued silently with his task. “I once wondered, having read such tales in stories or in the paper, how anyone could kill in anger. To become so incensed as to lose control over one’s faculties, to become so lost in their own mind as to take a life in a moment of fury. How Monica felt at that moment, as she looked upon her mother...” I said, nearly inaudible, “And I think of my father if he had ever come to harm my mother...”

“Yes,” Vestra quietly pressed.

“And I… begin… to understand.”

I was leaning over Lady seated on a low stool, giving her a thorough brush, when I heard Vestra emerge from his room and descend softly to meet me.

“Duke Gerth has finally contacted me,” Vestra announced.

“He has?”

“The documents he seeks are at the abode of Tomas Rudel Solon. I assume you recall the name.”

“Of course.”

“I knew that he should rear his ugly head again,” Vestra sneered. “Duchess Von Hresvelg has had a history of altercations with him. Long have I endeavoured to liberate Enbarr from his odious influence. Again I find myself in battle with him, unable to strike the decisive blow but merely to commit a single well-placed stab. I will be off to his home to-night to recover that which the minister seeks.”

“When will we be going?” I inquired, and there was not a flash of surprise on Vestra’s face, but rather a nefarious grin.

“You have no reservations over breaking into a man’s home? I hardly think that you will come away unscathed should we be apprehended.”

“I cannot imagine that you have any intent on being caught. Nor do I,” I said, putting aside the brush, “So I find that we are both willing, and I ask you again: when will we be going?”

“We shall catch a cab at ten o’clock, which will find us at Aberdowns just before midnight, and a proper darkness to conduct our search. I have the more salient details resolved; you need merely your sharp eyes and quiet shoes, and we shall have the documentation safe and away to their careless owners.”

As planned, we arrived at Aberdowns, walking several minutes through a peacefully slumbering borough before Vestra finally gestured to a large château. It was fronted with a gilt wrought iron fence, and a stone wall surrounding a lush garden, providing ample privacy with which to steal into the property. Vestra put down the black leather satchel which he had had tucked safely under an arm, pulling two silk masks from it which we both silently donned. I put a foot to the stonework, feeling for a secure hold in the darkness. I had been an avid tree climber as a boy, and I was glad to see that I had not lost the skill in all these years. I was quickly over the other side, landing in the soft grass with a thump. I spun back round, prepared to catch the satchel should Vestra throw it over, but already he was at my shoulder, and we secreted to the back of the house, hidden in the shadow of the second storey balcony. Vestra pulled out a canvas roll from his bag, revealing an impressive array of infiltration tools. He handed me his dark lantern, and I shone it upon the veranda door. He took a set of picks to the lock, and shortly we were within what appeared to be a sun parlour, two doors leading to parts unknown.

Vestra took my elbow and gestured to the door on the right, and I dutifully followed him into a sumptuous study. I looked about hesitantly, but Vestra strode across the room with purpose, nearly silent on the wool carpet after taking the lantern from my hand. Immediately to my left was a set of doors leading out into the rest of the house. To the right, a narrow fireplace and a desk bare of anything but a mauve pen; across, a large window obscured by thick drapes. In the far right corner, however, was a standing safe, which Vestra now kneeled before, tools already in hand.

“I take it you have done this before?” I whispered.

“No, but an incursion into Solon’s domain has been long in the planning. Finally I had a properly pressing reason to initiate it.”

As he worked on the mechanism, I remained at the entrance, doors slightly cracked so that I might hear for approach. The gentle click of Vestra’s diligent efforts began to settle the tense set of my shoulders, and I became aware of the rhythmic tick of a clock that hung above the mantelpiece. It was too dark within the room to read it. Presently, Vestra purred with a quiet chuckle, and I looked to see the door of the safe swing silently open. He pulled a narrow box of cream folders from within, thumbing through it with the speed and accuracy of a machine, quickly pulling one forth, seemingly at random, and tucking it into his satchel.

As he was returning the box, I could see the smallest hesitation in him. I was about to call to him, but I heard a heavy step upon the wooden floor outside, and Vestra violently gestured to the curtains by the window. I leapt to action as Vestra swung the safe close, grabbing his bag of tools and joining me behind those generous velvet shades. Just as the rustle of the fabric settled, a man walked into the room.

The most apparent of his features was the vast expanse of his forehead, a pale, rounded dome. His grey hair was like a wraith grasping at the crown of his head, his ears large and drooping. All this served to make his face appear very small, with dark beady eyes to punctuate his pallid visage. He was quite wide, but not tall, the slight hunch of his posture no doubt exacerbating that fact.

He took a tumbler and poured himself whiskey from a crystal decanter, taking a seat at the desk with it. I looked to Vestra with concern, and the set of his mouth was a grim line. I followed his piercing gaze to the safe where I now saw that a single slip of paper had escaped from within. It was lying face up upon the floor, only half obscured under the feet of the safe. I suppressed a sharp intake of breath as I studied it in more detail. It was not merely a paper, but a photograph of a smiling man with curling hair about his temples, tanned, with kindly golden eyes: Von Ochs in the intimate embrace of another man of similar stature and ebony hair that I took to be Francis Urien.

The door of the study was opened again, this time a woman swathed in a black velvet dress. The sleeves were fitted, long black kid gloves reaching to her elbows, a black Gainsborough hat, unadorned, perching precariously upon her head. Her short hair was a fiery red.

“There is a matter in which you are urgently needed in Hrym,” said Solon imperatively. “You are to leave on the 8th, and meet with Thales at Myrddin. He will further explain the situation to you.”

“That sounds delightful, but did you not tell me that I would be able to stay in Enbarr for the foreseeable future?” the woman responded with a smile.

“You are believed to be taking residence in the Oches; if Von Ochs or his son are fatuous enough to go against me, the constabulary will be searching for a woman of your description. You are a fool to think that I would let you continue your cavorting around the city,” he responded, and the smile on her face was shortly gone. “Yes, did you honestly believe that your regular evenings gambling would escape me? That I would not recognise the gold passing out of your hands as the funds accorded to you to maintain your persona?”

“Don’t worry your little head,” she said. “I got the job done, didn’t I --”

Solon rose from his chair to loom menacingly over Kronya as he cut her words short.

“Moreover, you permitted Vestra to the property – invited him in, no less only escaping discovery by him thanks to Bran Von Ochs’ deviancy. You are to be sent to the Alliance to spare me having to suffer your incompetence any longer. Now get out, before I lose my patience.”

“And if I don’t?” she said defiantly, with an impish flick of her wrist. Solon further closed on the woman, her small frame nearly obscured by his broad back.

“You know what will happen,” the cadence of his voice brooking no argument.

Kronya did not flinch nor cower, but stood resolutely in the face of Solon’s wrath, saying nothing. It seemed to anger him more than anything she had said. I could see him raise his arm, preparing for a savage backhand. Vestra held a restraining hand to my forearm, forbidding me from movement; but then Solon stopped suddenly in the midst of his assault, slowly backing away, turning that hand to a protective gesture. I could see Kronya again, something silver held in her hands.

“Don’t --” he barked.

And she shot him squarely in the chest, blood spouting outwards onto her as he fell backwards. He coughed and gagged, drawing air through the blood in his lungs, attempting to speak, nothing but an incomprehensible gaggle of consonants. Vestra’s hand was a vice.

“We are not here,” he whispered into my ear, and I tried to decipher the emotion in his eyes, but there was none. I turned again to Kronya, her face contorted into a righteous grimace, as she shot a second time, a third. How long could this possibly last? How long until the thunderous sound of frenzied footsteps overtook the house? I was sure that it had already begun, but truly it was only the sound of my heart in my ears, a ferocious beat of drums. And then she ceased, inhaling a deep breath, fleeing from whence she came, the evidence of her presence lying still on the staining carpet.

Immediately Vestra was gone from my side, opening the safe again, throwing boxes wholesale into the fireplace.

“Help me with these,” he said imperiously, grabbing the decanter and throwing its contents over the pile of papers in the grate. He struck a match from the mantle, and a blaze sprung forth. I continued to pull envelopes from the safe, piling the photograph of Von Ochs with them and into the maelstrom. Vestra had begun to rifle through Solon’s desk drawers, cursing under his breath until he seemed to have found that which he was searching. This, too, he committed to the fire. I caught a flash of jade green as he snatched up his satchel, fastening it firmly; and then we were both sprinting through the house and out the way we had come. A voice yelled from the balcony, but we were otherwise unmolested as we scaled the stone wall, and were gone from sight.

We ran several miles before stopping, masks thrown into Vestra’s bag, occupying a deserted park as we cooled in the night air. Vestra sat on a bench as I leant against the trunk of a maple, watching him reörganise his tool-belt.

“Where do you think she has gone?” I panted.

“Home – as we will – wherever that may be. And then she will run. I will tell Von Ochs that his secret is safe, and a hunt will go out for her. She will be caught,” he reassured, methodically putting his tools away again, “for this,” he gestured in the direction we had come, “for Monica. For anything else that the police see fit.”

“I am again faced with some tragedy and to be left with no meaningful action but to attempt to salve my conscience.”

“Make no mistake. This was undoubtedly the most fortuitous course of events: the first case that closed itself, a second whose conclusion found its way so easily into our hands. Lament not the end of Tomas Solon, but find that dozens are now free from under his heavy hand.”

“I will not rejoice in his death and neither do I mourn. It is Kronya that concerns me; I cannot help the feeling that she is some sort of victim in this, in some strange way.”

“If you find any trouble – even small – in reconciling your feelings, it is because you see it as a matter of good and evil, and not merely a matter of two people whose relation had found its inevitable and fatal conclusion,” he said, coursing to his feet. “Attempting to find in each other,” he hesitated, “something that was not there.”

He snatched up his satchel from the bench, and I looked to him adversarially, the black of his hair stark against the smog of the Enbarr air.

“What do you mean? ‘Something that was not there’.”

“Nothing. Merely – Solon expected competency and she, leniency.”

“A dreadful way to end things,” I sighed.

“Let us go, Von Aegir. We mustn’t stay here overlong.”

“Yes. I would like to be free of these clothes, and I think I will never appreciate a long soak as I will to-night. And then sleep, perhaps,” I said wryly.

“Perhaps.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really didn't intend to go in such detail with the book, but then I got this dreadful idea of using it as a mirror/metaphor, and it got away from me. The idea of it in the first place (and Lorenz's writing group) was inspired by Teleny, a novel sometimes attributed to Oscar Wilde or otherwise to a group of his friends. It is notable if only for the fact that it is victorian gay erotica.  
> Fancy that.  
> If you're very interested, be warned that there's some debauched stuff in there, even by today's standards. And a sad ending, of course.  
> (I've read it on openlibrary.org)


	5. The Portrait of Mr. H.V.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished Disco Elysium recently and it was difficult for a while to think about anything besides Kim Kitsuragi, but thischapter'sfinallydone yaaaaaay
> 
> Unbeta'd

I looked with some amusement past the confines of my splayed newspaper as Lady patiently monitored Vestra at his work on the breakfast-table; seated on a stool, her chin placed delicately over polite paws, and eyes tracking Vestra’s every movement. Occasionally he would glower in her direction, but otherwise did not protest for having this silent supervisor. This peaceful equilibrium, however, was soon to be disturbed.

As Vestra was clearing beakers and other chemical paraphernalia from the table, there was a fatigued knock on the front door. I folded my paper away to answer it, admitting a young man who introduced himself as Linhardt Hevring, and I answered in turn. His hair was fine and long, half of which was pulled into a knot at the back of his head, the rest to fall around his sloped shoulders. He had a feminine face, an uncaring cast to his features, complexion unfamiliar with the outdoors, but bright grey eyes that indicated a piercing intelligence and alacrity of wit.

“I assume you are here with business for my friend,” I supplied.

“Unfortunately, yes,” said he in a voice soft and serene. I indicated the settee against the wall, and Vestra joined us in the sitting room. Mr. Hevring quickly scanned the room before taking a seat and addressing the both of us. “Have you had a chance at the paper this morning? Generally I find it uninteresting but to-day it has found me very troubled. If you might turn to the seventh page, you will find the offending article.”

I did so, locating the handful of columns dedicated to his distress:

Agarthian Man found Dead with Antique Sword[it said]

In the late hours of Friday 20th, a man was found floating in South Harbour. Authorities were promptly notified, and he was recovered and named as Némiras Moreau of Winograd Street, according to identification found on the body. However, no such person lives at this address, nor do any of its occupants claim to recognise him. Apart from his purse, the man was found with a peculiar broad-bladed sword, of a sort popularly used in executions in the 11th century. This sword had been reported as stolen from a civilian home only the day before the body was discovered --

“I imagine you are hoping that I will uncover the rest of your stolen possessions?” Vestra presumed.

“Oddly enough, no. The sword was the only thing taken, and as glad as I am to see it back, it brings with it other, more pressing concerns. While, in the official books, there has been claimed no foul play, I think it is right to reason that the man was a victim of murder; and should the constabulary come to realise this, I may find myself in a predicament.”

“Predicament,” said Vestra with a wry smile.

“No foul play?” I cried. “He was floating in the harbour!”

“Have I not said before that it is a wonder that they accomplish anything at all?” Vestra decried with glee. “But no, it is quite clear.”

“That the constabulary has something to gain from keeping the means of his death a secret,” Mr. Hevring asserted.

“Or something to lose,” Vestra supplied.

“I sought your expertise, Mr. Vestra, because I was assured of the confidential nature of your business. I would be assured to know that my trust is not misplaced.”

“It is a somewhat familiar conversation in which I find myself that a client expresses distrust in me. I cannot fathom why,” and the sly manner in which Vestra said it would put a fox to shame.

“You have no reason to fear my friend here,” I intervened. “Despite his demeanour, he is rather harmless.”

“No need in drawing this out, I suppose,” Mr. Hevring responded. “I collect and study various artefacts and curiosities, cataloging a wide range of materials greatly concerning historical figures of Fôdlan in the 11th century of the Adrestian calendar.

“Three weeks ago, I was approached by a man who claimed to be a dealer of some repute, and knowledgeable enough in the area – with a shock of red hair, friendly and youthful to the point of discourtesy; the kind of man who fancies himself self-aware, sincere at one moment and calculating the next – that I thought could help me further my studies. A true snake oil salesman, but the bounty that he was claiming to be in possession of was far worth the effort of antagonising him.”

“So Mr. Moreau successfully tempted you into complacency, drew you out with the pretext of an exchange for these items, and then stole into your home…. Where were you to meet with him?”

“It is very good that you are as perceptive as I was led to believe; I was expecting to become fairly fatigued from the recount,” Mr. Hevring yawned, perhaps for emphasis. “We were arranged to meet on the 17th at Pegasus Avenue for the exchange, and for several days leading into this date, he was excessively obliging. But when the day came, he never showed himself. I had assumed that he had been run off for some presumed illicit practices, and though disappointing as it was, he had yet to extort any payment from me in advance; and so it was that I returned home none the lesser. But, as you theorised, it was a ruse, and I returned home to find the sword gone.”

“Just the sword, hmm. A very considerate criminal. It must have been valuable.”

“Not the most expensive I have in my collection. Granted, the sword would have been quite visible, but with the time that he had at his disposal, there would be little reason not to look for something more.”

“So it is safe to say that the sword was his only destination.”

“Again, as far as I am aware,” Mr. Hevring shook his head, “it is a piece of nominal importance. But there is something else of note. This man did not introduce himself to me as Némiras Moreau but as Sylvain Gautier.”

“You often meet men fond of aliases?”

“It’s not unheard of.”

“How much of what you have told me is known to the police? I assume that they have already come to darken your door.”

“I told them the truth, or rather, as much of it as they needed to know. If they have found themselves at a crisis of conscience as it would appear, I would prefer to be as far from their minds as I am able, if not only for that fact, but also that my research often requires me to extend the boundaries of the law – nothing brutish as you might imagine – but not something that an officer would endear themselves to under regular circumstances. And even besides their investigation, I have some worry that the nefarious force that has seen Mr. Gautier off to an early grave may be erroneously looking my way, due to my perceived dealings with him.”

“It is a knotty case you have found for yourself, Mr. Hevring,” said Vestra. “Do you have any familiarity with the address on the deceased’s person, Winograd? How did you contact him?”

“We only met on his terms, and he insinuated to me that he was only visiting the country – that he lived somewhere near the Sreng border outside of Itha; so the Winograd address means nothing to me. And it was always in telegram that we would converse when not in person, but the address he gave me was Staraya Carnation Road.”

“Off St. Macuil’s, near the Valencourt?”

“Just the one.”

“Did he ever admit to working with someone or mention any names?”

“Certainly he was independent, but if he ever said a name in passing, I wouldn’t recall.”

“And there is nothing else pertinent?”

Mr. Hevring began to shake his head.

“Very well,” Vestra said, nearly to himself. “Mr. Hevring, I will contact you within a week’s time on any progress that has been made. Until then, you would be wise to keep your doors firmly locked.”

“So I _am_ in danger of,” he struggled, “someone?”

“If someone were in want of your life, I think that you should already be dead. But there may remain some interest in your collection.”

“How reassuring,” Mr. Hevring said dryly.

Vestra remained agitated for the next several days, going out alone to survey Winograd and Carnation, and the buildings therein. Despite his apparent preöccupation with the case, he was reluctant to share his thoughts with me. I could see it as nothing other than that nervous predilection towards maintaining his air of aloofness and omnipotence that he so diligently cultivated, so I determined to forego a formal examination – at least until the week had passed. I also had had my own travails in the fast approaching Noa Ball, as negligible as they were. Even as I buttoned my waistcoat in preparation of it, I was embattled with a lingering anxiety. I donned my dinner jacket, judiciously arranging the knot of my marine blue cravat to perfectly frame the lively saffron of my mother’s pendant.

I went into the sitting room to collect Lady for the evening, when Vestra called down to me from his bed-chamber.

“Von Aegir?”

“Yes, my dear fellow.”

“There is a small velvet box, of azure hue, somewhere in the bottom right drawer of my writing desk downstairs; would you kindly find it for me? It is unlocked.”

“Of course.”

Lady had been running haphazardly round the room but now circled my feet as I shuffled to Vestra's desk. The drawer slid open with a smooth wooden whisper, inside an array of fine fountain pens (still sheathed in the commercial boxes), ink wells sorted by colour, a blotting cloth neatly folded. Lady lost interest after a cursory sniff or two, cantering sagely into my bed-chamber of her own accord. I dismissed her antics, and rummaged my hand to the back of the drawer, greatly obscured in shadow; but I was sure that I could see the dim glow of velvet in its depths, and the metallic reflection of something else hidden there.

Vestra appeared behind me, and I grasped the little box, throwing the incriminating drawer shut. His collar was askew, sleeves uncuffed and dangling childishly. He smiled faintly, or perhaps grimaced, taking the box from me with a word of gratitude. I could smell the pomade in his hair, for once fashioned back into something civilised, but no less intimidating, no less elegant. He procured two onyx cuff-links from the box, setting it closed upon the desktop. Deftly he wove the links into his sleeves before me. He pinned his collar down.

I watched him – a fraction too long, I knew – but he did not turn away; instead moving closer, drawing a hand to my face, over my cheek to my right temple. I dared not move as he shifted a stray lock of hair over my ear.

“You’ll be in want of a trim soon,” he intoned.

“Hmm, yes,” I swallowed. “I fear I have become dependent on you in that regard. Searching for someone else at this point is, well. A bit hopeless.”

“Hopeless?” he smirked. “Never in all my days should I expect to hear such words from your lips,” and it was that rare occasion that he would show a vulnerability, some peculiar softening of his sharpened angles, the faintest rouge dusting his cheeks. “Are you attempting to develop into one of those moribund and tragic creatures that wail their woes atop high towers?”

“I –,” I frowned. “I have completely lost your meaning.”

“Come. Unfortunately, we have a party to attend. Ample time to speak amongst those moribund and tragic creatures later,” he said withdrawing. It was only at this moment that his gaze slid to my neck where the gemstone pendant hung, nestled in the folds of my cravat. Vestra flared his nostrils, the air of contentment washing away. “What is that?”

“This?” I asked, running a forefinger along the bezel. “It was my mother’s. Handsome, is it not?”

“There’s no need to go so far,” he responded tersely. “The Noa Ball is not worthy of it.”

“Well, I’m rarely afforded the occasion, and I think I might succumb to this little whim for to-day.”

“To be truthful, I would rather you not wear such a garish trinket,” he sneered. “It suits you ill.”

“Well, at your insistence, I will have to wear it.”

“You rarely do what’s good for you anyhow.”

“To think that a trinket could offend you so! Perhaps some noxious chemical you were fawning over earlier in the day has your senses addled, or you carry a grudge against me for some nonsense fault,” I snapped.

“I am sorry,” he said, instantly composed. He would not meet my eyes. “...I ask that you forget my little indiscretions. I would not wish to sour the rest of the night.”

“You might have thought of that before speaking.”

After an uneasy cab ride, we stepped out onto Chapel Passage, one of the many carriages of disembarking passengers by the kerb. Vestra and I entered Azure Hall abreast, out of the fading dusk and into the merry incandescence of chandeliers and convivial voices. Immediately we were beset by Lady Constance Nuvelle making vigorous circles past the entrance, eagerly thanking new guests for attending, and funneling us through to the main hall. I spied a great number of familiar faces, but before I could single one out, a tall dark gentleman approached us. His features were chiseled, a long drape of hair like a veil pulled from his face. His eyes were hard and grey as stone as he appraised us. I felt a minute tension in Vestra before he returned the man’s silent salutations.

“Forgive me, sir,” I imposed, “I find in you someone very familiar, but a name escapes me.”

The man looked superciliously to my friend, and with a greatly suppressed sigh, Vestra introduced him.

“Lord Arundel of Brion. We have occasion to meet only sparsely; I suppose our connexion has not emerged until now.” Vestra gestured to me with an upturned hand, addressing Lord Arundel now, “And Mr. Ferdinand Von Aegir. But this you already knew.”

“I extend my deepest condolences for your father,” Lord Arundel spoke solemnly. “May the goddess look kindly on his soul.”

“Thank you,” I said, and his eyes dropped for an instant to the pendant sitting below my collar.

“I’m afraid I must borrow Mr. Vestra from you, if you do not mind. There are some private matters that we must discuss before I leave.”

“So soon?” Vestra reproved. “But the celebrations have only just begun.”

“It is no trouble,” I said quickly. “In any case, I see Lady Nuvelle has been trying to capture my attention, and I should not disappoint her. Vestra,” I nodded, then excused myself from their presence. I walked stiffly over, greeting Lady Nuvelle with a friendly smile, and she put a familiar hand to my elbow. I cast a furtive glance back towards Vestra and Lord Arundel, but found that they had already vanished elsewhere.

“How is it that it has been over a year and we have not spoken?” she greeted me.

“It has been so long?”

“I have not seen you at the club in ages and not even a letter. Next week there are plans for a luncheon, just the usual. You are more than free to join us,” she went on. “How uplifting the feeling to see you walk through those doors again, recalling so fondly of the past.”

“We were quite the pair,” I said, mirroring her fondness.

“The waves we made, the jealous, awed looks we conjured every year at Marquis Cerny’s St. Indech feast, Von Aegir, they were never again to be replicated. Do you not miss it?”

“I enjoyed those times very much, but the last year has given me new perspective on my life; that much of it was merely given to me by token of my heritage. I worked diligently to be worthy of it, and in some way I achieved that; but with my father gone, I am faced with the reality of a veritable _tabula rasa_. I desire to restore myself, not by the accident of others, but by my own merit.”

“You of all men are worthy, and this quest you have put yourself upon is more evidence of it.”

“Thank you. It is a reassuring thing to hear.”

“But does it mean that you have come here to-night only to abstain from your sociable nature?” she inquired.

“I could not possibly pass the night without the privilege of a dance.”

A bright smile lit up her face.

“Lead on, Duke Von Aegir,” and she took my arm.

In this way we spent the next hour, re-introducing myself to my once-peers, to another life, what felt almost like a stranger’s. Somewhere in the last year, my love of such things had been misplaced, just now resurfacing; but it was strange, too, to be able after so long, to view it from the outside. To listen to great odes to gossip and drama without any stakes in the matter; for great tragedies to be diminished to a grain of sand in the grand scheme of my new life.

After I had my dance, I found myself alone by a bounteous tray of fruit canapes, refreshing for the next foray into the lives of noble ladies and gentlemen. I shifted idly from foot to foot as an ache creeped over my right knee, sipping champagne from a crystal flute. I became aware of a lull in the music, and couples began to filter into the centre of the hall. I considered striking up conversation with the small group of men nearest to me, but something gave me pause: the tall, lithe shadow of a man arresting my attention, flanked by the crimson splash of a woman in a sumptuous gown.

It was clear that they were familiar with each other. Surely they had done this on many occasions before: the movements of an effortless grace despite their disparity in height; his expression the picture of austere devotion; hers conserved and imperial, betraying nothing besides a controlled benevolence. But even as she moved masterfully over the floor, chocolate curls pinned like a crown upon her head, I found my eye drawn towards him. That looming shadow now drawn out towards the light, deceptively graceful and elegant. He scanned over her shoulder, ever watchful, his lips barely moving as he spoke something into her ear. I wondered if there was a single pair of eyes that did not watch Vestra and Duchess Von Hresvelg dancing.

At that moment, I was overcome with the absurd desire to steal him away from her. To take him in my arms and dance wildly, carelessly. Judging eyes looking on in detestation and uncertainty, but in jealousy, too, perhaps; for a soul set free of the shaking confines of inhibition. What waves then, what awe. But I washed those dangerous thoughts from my mind with a draught from my glass, turning away from the couple dancing in the centre of the room. I took my timepiece from the pocket of my waistcoat to see that it was nearing eleven o’clock. I carefully tucked it away again.

“Have you enjoyed yourself?” said a dark voice from behind me.

“Vestra,” I started, stepping about to accommodate my sudden conversation partner, “I did. But it appears I entered this building under the misconception that I was to pass _some_ time with you to-night.”

”And watch the nobility all preen as you flaunt me about?”

“Despite your temperament, a few, I think, would have enjoyed you.” I took the last sip from my glass, coming to a realisation. “Is that what it was? You were avoiding me to save yourself an introduction?”

“While not as sociable as yourself, I am not without some obligations of my own; that I have escaped being strutted around by you is merely the fortuitous consequence of it.”

“I would have been more cross, but I rather forgot to.”

“You do miss it,” he said plainly.

“The circumstances were a bit turbulent last year,” I said, turning back to the crowd. “I could not attend.”

I chuckled.

“What?” he asked.

“It is silly. I was disquieted of a silly idea that something might happen. But we are both here,” I smiled.

“My, my. Ferdinand Von Aegir, worry over anything?”

“I live with an unrepentant worrier. I was bound to adopt the habit.”

“I cannot imagine what you mean.” Vestra hummed. “But I have finished here, unless you have some business left.”

“Then I shall have you for a half-hour or so?”

“If you must.”

I introduced Vestra to Lady Nuvelle and a few others of the immediate group, anticipating the luncheon, should Vestra condescend to attend with me. After good-byes and profuse promises to Lady Nuvelle that I would see her next week, Vestra and I hailed a cab home.

We arrived at Orchard Street without incident, the both of us trudging up the short flight of stairs. Lady greeted us at the door, and I settled on the settee for a short brush before bedding down. Vestra doffed his dinner jacket, draping it over the back of his armchair. He went to the spirit case to pour himself a drink, swirling the amber liquid thoughtfully in his glass. He stopped, as though remembering.

“Would you care for a glass?” he asked.

“The ball was not enough for you?”

“I don’t care for champagne.”

Vestra did not seem tired exactly, but some degree of it, some deep weariness that I had not yet observed in him. He stood by the window, ominous mien retreating, vulnerable in a way. I became aware that I had stopped brushing Lady, that she had silently lost interest and shambled off. I set the brush on the seat beside me, gliding my hand over the worn fabric as I retracted my hand. I wondered what it would be to run my hand over Vestra’s back, to feel the weight of him beyond the thin barrier of cotton. What it would mean to take his hand, and soothe that worry from his shoulders.

I approached him, carefully, as though a shy animal threatening to dart away. The silence was muffled, swathed in the thick aubergine drapes, the almyran carpet, the slip of skin at the inside of his wrist immeasurably tempting. I stopped just short of his heel such that he must turn fully round to address me properly. He did so wordlessly, scarcely surrendering one single pace to accommodate a space between our chests.

“I saw you dancing with the duchess,” I admitted.

“I expect so. We were hardly in hiding.”

“She was radiant. I could not help but find myself envious.”

“Her most distinguished aspects are a steadfast conviction and eminent authority, but you are not incorrect. None could compare.”

“But you see, I was envious of _her_.”

“Envious of… her?”

“Would it be so hard to believe?” I extended my hand in invitation, bowing slightly, meek grin on my face. “May I have this dance?” I held my breath, a thin airy thing quivering in my lungs. Vestra set his glass before the window sill. He took my proffered hand, placing his other tenderly at my waist. I abruptly pulled him closer, into the centre of the room.

“Von Aegir,” he chastised, but then he was laughing that dark little laugh, and I could not help but smile in turn. I was about to lament the absence of music, but, sensing my perturbation, he began tapping a gentle rhythm over our intertwined hands, a wordless invitation. I meant this all as a moment of brevity, to distract Vestra from his apparent woes, but the intensity of his gaze was as the depths of the ocean; at his heart the sun, undeniable in its gravity. And I could hardly dispute the forbidden delight in finally having my hands on him, as I could not in that hall full of judging eyes; a whole host of people just as guilty as I for having done a thing no less evil than to love.

“Is everything all right?” I asked, following Vestra’s lead as he began a sedate waltz.

“So says the man with a brow as furrowed as the Morgaine.”

“It is just, you have hardly spoken a word since we arrived home; I thought that you would have much to say about the ball. Mostly disparaging, perhaps, but you seemed tolerable with Lady Nuvelle, Lord Pasic and the rest,” I stepped back with my right, “Tell me what has been on your mind.”

“In the pursuit of any great thing, one is faced with a point of hesitation. Like the turning of a page in a novel of great suspense. It is necessary – no matter the struggle or the pretending – for it is inescapable. I am not afraid of it but I cannot under-estimate it, for even as there is a single flake of rust, so the whole is consumed in it with time. Such is the conundrum with which I am tasked.”

“Tasked by whom? The duchess?”

“I speak with her on countless matters. The breadth and scope of my consideration for Duchess Von Hresvelg concerns me with her affairs as much as they do herself.”

“That is not quite the impression I gathered when you first introduced me to her.”

“She was not attempting to convince you in either direction; the conclusions you come to are your own device. In this regard as well,” he uttered, gesturing with a nod between us.

“Ah. Is this your very circuitous way of saying that nothing is troubling you?” I said, taking the lead, moving with a more impassioned energy to twirl us about the room. I bumped a leg on my armchair at one particular flourish, but my growing mirth could not be diminished.

“Your insatiable concern will get you nowhere with me,” Vestra responded, but my exuberance proved contagious, for he too, attempted more ambitious moves until we had nearly lost all rhythm. Stamping about, swirling, intertwined with each other: we were two birds in the dawning twilight of something that could not yet be spoken aloud, a yearning intrinsic to our very being. And then something gave way for only an instant – my knee, perhaps; the boundaries of Vestra’s restraint, another – and I felt myself falling backwards into his arms, dipped to the carpet. There was I suspended, transfixed by the depths of Vestra’s citrine eyes. His dark fringe fell from his face, a curtain to shut out the world around us. He hovered above me, as the pale spring clouds of Drothin, just beyond my reach.

Vestra brought me to my feet again, with something like the feather light touch of lips upon the crown of my head. But just as I had felt it, the sensation was gone, nothing but an errant breath, the wishful thought of a mind driven inexorably to distraction. Vestra pulled away, flattening his ruffled shirt, and I felt the loss of the touch so keenly, it was as though I had fallen upon a cold winter’s road.

“As enjoyable as this has been,” Vestra said softly, “it is late.”

“Has that ever stopped you before?”

“To-night it has.” He bowed ever so slightly at the waist. “Good-night, Von Aegir.”

“Good-night.”

I watched his retreating form, heart heavy in my breast.

It felt as though I had only just begun to sink under the dark curtain of sleep that I heard a frantic knocking. It would not stop even through my renewed efforts to unconsciousness, through the pillow I had pulled over my head. I grunted to my feet, shuffling into the sitting room, and finally the knocking ceased. The door rattled open, where Vestra stood in a nightgown. He was alert, brusque and humourless when he addressed me.

“Get dressed if you intend on coming. There is a cab waiting for us.”

“What?” I mumbled, and only then did I see the pale spectre of Mr. Hevring on the landing, coat haphazardly buttoned and eyes great white disks.

“Good morning, Mr. Von Aegir,” he said nervously.

“Mr. Hevring will explain on the way,” said Vestra, returning to his room.

“What has happened?” I asked.

“It’s not as dire as you think. Perhaps. But yes, it would be best to save this for the ride.”

I looked up to Vestra’s closed door, visualising for a moment some imaginary morning ritual of his now condensed into a few minutes, and failing to envision Vestra in any state of disarray or hurriedness. I decided that a bit of undignified vesture on my own part was worth hearing the state of Mr. Hevring’s distress now, and not second hand from Vestra later. I went to my room and dressed without a word, and all three of us found our way aboard the carriage waiting at the kerb.

“What is the matter?” I inquired wearily, bouncing the back of my head upon the seat as the carriage lurched into motion.

“I have had another unwanted visitor,” Mr. Hevring explained. He settled deeply into his seat and nearly closed his eyes. “It was in the very early hours of the morning, such that it was still very much night, that I awoke to a sound. It was dark, dark enough that it was more a feeling than a seeing, at the first. But I was sure that I was not alone in the room. As I became conscious of a shallow breathing, it was with a terrible realisation that it was not my own; and above me loomed a fearsome shadow, the outline of a stranger, stolen into my home. I was sure that they had come to do away with me, to tie up lose ends, as they say; but upon realising my awakened state, they fled, having lost their composure for murder. I hid myself away for several hours before coming to you at your earliest inconvenience.”

“Are you very sure that this person was there to kill you?” Vestra asked.

“If it was not to kill me, then what? To burglarise me? The most apparent things of any interest are in the main room, in full view and free to take.”

“Well, we shall see shortly the truth of it.”

We arrived at Mr. Hevring’s, the quaint _cul de sac_ quiet, rows of tenement windows peering down at us. Most curtains were drawn, the lives within obscured by lacy edges and sun-bleached linen. Our destination was on the top-most floor, a precarious metal scaffolding snaking round it and nearly to the roof. Vestra took one furtive glance out onto the street before we crossed into the lifeless air of 91 Mile Garden Court. An effervescent young woman passing us gave Mr. Hevring a familiar smile in greeting before returning to the obscurity of empty echoing stairwells. The temperature rose as we ascended, Vestra climbing on resolutely ahead of me, a solitary bead of sweat painting the nape of his neck. Gladly, we found ourselves before unit 514, a faded green door at the far end of the hall. Mr. Hevring opened it with a tense rustle of keys, letting it swing out ahead before crossing the threshold.

The room must have been of a fair size, but this was obscured by the overabundance of cabinets and shelves lining every wall, the only space spared, the tall, narrow frame of one solitary window. It had been left closed, and in Mr. Hevring’s absence, the heat of the place had become nearly unbearable. I swiftly went over to open it as Vestra took stock of the rooms. I hovered by the open window, that feeble breeze permeating the mugginess inside, tessellations of morning light through the scaffold grille casting over the brickwork, over the street below. I pictured myself framed in the window as I would have seen myself from the street. It was a long way down.

“So the thief came up by the scaffold,” Vestra declared, “and through the window.”

“And out the very same way,” Mr. Hevring concurred. “It was open of course. I rarely close it before Horsebow.”

“And there is nothing you can see missing?”

“Feel free to have a look around as I verify that. The bedroom is beyond that door,” he gestured wearily.

I retreated from the window sill, watching Vestra duck into another room. Mr. Hevring reluctantly began to rummage through drawer after drawer, exacting gaze flashing over a dizzying amount of – what looked to me to be merely chips of old pottery and stones. I knew extending my aid there would amount to little, but what more I could do for Vestra was unclear to me also. I could glimpse him by the bed, scanning over the furniture, the walls – before stopping over an oak vanity, concentrating on parsing some newly discovered puzzle.

I became distracted of the notion of some intimate moment in glimpsing someone familiar as he remains unaware of your armourous eye, and in such a way conjuring in him an unfamiliarity; every curve or straight edge that finds new meaning, new appeal. To see again, as though for the first time, all those lovely aspects that one feels must have been taken for granted before. To look upon him and re-remember the mystery of him. How stunning each elusive movement, how graceful the shape of narrow hips under staunchly pressed trousers. The candid glimpse of him framed in the bedroom door as that of a renaissance portrait hung in the galleries of the Castello.

Presently, Vestra turned his head to face me, eyes inescapably penetrating, and I feared that he must have read my thoughts, or worse, that I had unknowingly brought them out into the world; but then the spell was broken, gaze searching for something else, someone.

“This case on the vanity,” Vestra said, addressing Mr. Hevring, “is there not something missing?”

Mr. Hevring poked his head over a glass display of small deteriorating leather satchels, and shuffled his way over to the box in question.

“Why yes. A ring. But it was just a trinket. More… sentimental value,” he said with a sad frown, “than monetary.”

“Why risk taking it, then?” I questioned.

“Clearly this ring had far more value than merely sentimental,” Vestra reasoned. “What was its make? What did it look like?”

“A round jade stone and silver fitting, handmade, but not unskilled,” answered Mr. Hevring. “It had a symbol carved on the face. It was not for many years that I came to the meaning of it, but in the eleventh century it was strongly related to the priestess Saint Cethleann. It was said to bestow power to the holder,” he shook his head. “But even if it was some religious fanatic, the symbol would mean nothing to anyone in this age.”

“Whatever it meant to the thief,” Vestra said tersely, “I think that you will find they have done with you, Mr. Hevring. You should fear no more visits from strangers. They have got what they wanted.”

“As much as I would like to believe you, Mr. Vestra, I will be packing my things and lodging with a friend for the foreseeable future. Most likely until you have apprehended this person or people. If they are so intent on my possessions, I would rather they have them over my life.”

“It would be prudent,” Vestra said. “A few questions before we take our leave: do you recall any defining features of the thief?”

“Not even whether they were a man or woman. As I said, just the outline of them in the dark.”

“Upon exiting the window, did you gather the impression that they descended in some way to the street or other, or that they ascended?”

“Ascended, I think.”

“And the roof is accessible?”

“The few times I have tried, the door up was locked, but I don’t know on a regular basis.”

“That will be all for now. I trust you’ll contact me if or when you have settled your affairs.”

“I shall.”

“Farewell, Mr. Hevring,” and Vestra signalled to me his intent to leave.

“Really do not hesitate, Mr. Hevring,” I said, laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder. He smiled faintly in return. He looked as tired as I felt, likely more-so, as I reunited with Vestra in the hall.

“What do you make of it?” I asked him.

He said nothing but walked the length of the hallway back to the stairs. Curiously he stopped at the next flight, walking again down the entire length, descending the stairwell at the opposite end. We continued in this winding path until we had returned to the ground floor. Finally, he spoke.

“I think nothing of it. I need coffee.”

For the remaining daylight hours, Vestra had sequestered himself to his bed-chambers. There was the intermittent shuffle of an agitated pacing from his direction, the rare release of an incensed sigh, and the furious scratchings of pen on paper. When the eight o’clock hour struck, I found myself before his firmly shut door, concerned but apprehensive. Nevertheless, I firmly knocked and, in a tone that brooked no argument, called his name.

“Vestra, you are all right in there?” There was no answer, but the pacing ceased. “If by your silence you attempt to send me away, know that I shall have to interpret it as that you are incapacitated, and so unable to answer; and that my aid is required such that I would surely be neglecting my years of training should I not force my way in.”

A moment later and the door was slowly opened to reveal a sallow eyed Vestra down to his shirtsleeves.

“Would you like to come with me to Lazenby?” I asked.

“Despite what you may believe, you are doing a great disservice to yourself.”

“Come with me to dinner.”

He looked as though he were about to argue, but then the line of his shoulders gave way.

“Valencourt,” he muttered, and the door was closed again.

I smiled to myself and descended the stairs, ushering Lady into my bed-chambers along the way. I donned a dark blue waistcoat and jacket, reaching for my mother’s pendant. At the last moment I thought better of it, only brushing over the silver chain absently. Vestra found me waiting on the landing, rearranging the cuff of my sleeve. He gave an appraising eye up and down my wardrobe, focusing at my upper breast.

“I thought you would wear your sapphire. That is just the waistcoat for it.”

“I was convinced of the impression that you found it ghastly. A feat of the senses considering how innocuous it is,” I said haughtily.

“Yes, will I ever hear the end of my lapse in judgement,” he responded, but not harshly. Not without a fondness.

“We are already out --”

“Come, I will get it for you,” and he spirited away through the sitting room.

“I cannot fathom why you are so intent on this,” I sighed loudly.

He appeared again, and I extended a hand to receive it, but instead he held one end of the chain in each hand, spread in a silent request for permission. I lowered my own and turned round, and he closed the distance, his arms descending around my shoulders. He fastened the silver chain, warm at the nape of my neck, the smooth leather of his gloves brushing over skin. And then Vestra stepped back as I returned to face him.

“It is an acceptable enough night to walk, I think,” he said, extending a crooked arm to me.

“Indeed,” and I took it.

“I wonder if you are in an obliging enough temper now to tell me about the case,” I said.

Vestra contemplated over a spoonful of fish and turnip stew.

“What is your impression,” he hedged.

“I do not know that you are right about Mr. Hevring, that he is yet free from this ordeal; but he is taking the necessary precautions.”

“The thief took the ring,” Vestra said quickly and in opposition, “hoping to come and go unseen. They knew where just to find it in that labyrinth of ancient trifles. They had seen it before, or had been told where to find it. They escaped through the window, ascending to the roof by way of the scaffold. They unlocked the door --”

“And vanished into the night,” I interjected.

“They never left the building.”

“You think that they are hiding there? Until….”

“Plainly and openly they live there.”

“Then why not enter through the door? An open window is tempting, but to climb over the outside of the building is treacherous.”

“It was too tempting. To enter through a window is one thing, but to exit through it is another. It solidifies in the mind the idea of _other_ , that some outside force had decided to intrude upon 91 Mile Garden, to dissuade the idea that, in reality, it had come from within.”

“Before,” it dawned upon me, “you were checking all the units.”

“As I expected, there was nothing amiss,” Vestra admitted.

“What do you think it all has to do with the man found in the harbour? Gautier or Moreau, or whatever his name may be.”

“He was the first to take something. It is clear to see that he mistook the sword; the ring was the real score, whether he made the blunder willingly or not. He was summarily punished and made an example of.”

“So you believe it to be one cohort in coöperation.”

“Did I say such a thing?” he said without inflection.

I frowned.

“Because I think that there are two sides at play,” I explained. “Gautier’s and the thief's. Gautier made a habit of stealing antiquities, selling them to unsuspecting collectors. Eventually the consequences of these actions would find him. It would be his greatest misfortune that one of his past victims would take justice into his own hands, instead of relying on the proper authorities. The poor disposal of the body was evidence of their inexperience.”

“And your explanation of the missing ring?”

“It could have belonged to someone else before Mr. Hevring came upon it, and the thief was intent on having it back to its original owner, perhaps.”

“He expounded upon its sentimental value; as asinine as I find the concept, sentimentality is oft associated with such things as friends and family – a family heirloom, for example. I am compelled to believe that the ring was Mr. Hevring’s from the start.”

“Oh, why did I not ask him?” I shuffled in my seat, the grey candle at the centre of the table flickering in tandem. “Did Staraya Road not bear any fruit?”

“Mile Garden shows more promise.”

Curls of steam continued to waft up from Vestra’s scarcely touched bowl. I took another taste of my stew, watching a chunk of poultry float forlornly in the wake of the spoon.

“What are your plans?” I asked, finally.

“The tenement requires more thorough investigation. A dedicated lookout is the first step, but I don’t care to waste my time in such a way.”

“My meaning was in a broader sense.” I angled forward in my chair. “That is, I wonder if you expect to do this detecting work always. To remain at 403 for the rest of your days?”

“I harbour no particular affinity for the place, if that is what you are asking. If it would be advantageous to find new accommodations, I would do so.”

“Indeed,” I smiled sadly. “Even someone as unsociable as yourself would not be disinclined towards the family way.”

Vestra perched in the chair as a statue. Cold.

“I will never marry.”

“There is no one that interests you?” I said faintly.

“I will never marry,” he said, unerringly but spiritless. “But you… As Duke Von Aegir, you were expected to carry on your family name, your title.”

“A long and noble history I was so proud to uphold,” I extolled. “To woo a fair maiden with eloquence and mirth. I would mark her beauty with the finest rose, serenade her with song. The dashing knight to defend her and her honour. The picture of noble husband as in those ancient tales of chivalry.”

“As a fairy tale,” he murmured, watching me stir aimlessly in my bowl. “But you must no more cower in anticipation of duke. Would you have your father control you even in death?”

“You are mistaken,” I reproached him, gripping the silver handle tightly. “Those things I said before… they were not untrue, but I loved my father. The intent in his actions in office had degraded, no longer for good – they were for himself – but he had done me no wrong. You told me that your father deserved his death, you seem to have despised him, but did you not love him, too?”

“You have subscribed to the misguided notion that there must exist some welcome feeling, when in reality, there _must be_ nothing at all; that love and hate are necessary to each other, and they very simply are not.” Vestra surged ever so slightly forward, never raising his voice: not accusatory, but imperative. “But of course your father did you no wrong: the pageantry stitched into your very mien, the perfect minister’s son, the perfect heir, the perfect noble. We obscure ourselves with manufactured visages, but you have committed so deeply to your mask that you have forgotten that it is not a part of your face. What lies beneath anymore? Do not speak, I will tell you,” and his sharp eyes softened.

“There is not a nobleman, but a good man who has finally shed the pretense of legacy. He has absolved himself of the responsibility of an heir; the ladies of the peerage have lost interest in being fawned over by him.”

“It was not with any intent,” I spoke slowly, unbalanced by the sudden sincerity of his tone.

“There were things beyond your sphere of influence, intrinsic things in your life that could not be changed,” he asserted, leaning forward again.

“I knew I could not change it myself, but it was not a wholly unlucky thing,” I said, relinquishing my silverware and placing my hands down on the surface of the table. “There is a romance in doing for honour what one could not do for love.”

“You need not deny your nature.”

“Is it a denial that strives so wholeheartedly to allegiance and mirth?”

“Is this your attempt to justify pretending – to justify a suffering? There is no justice,” Vestra declared, and he felt very close now, the small table between us rapidly shrinking. “You are who you have always been. There is no hiding. Not from me.”

“I was not trying to,” I exhaled.

He brought a gloved hand to mine, fingertips feather-light over my exposed knuckles, sliding up to hover at my wrist, surely counting each fluttering beat there. The movement was at once so pronounced that I thought to fear each stranger eye in the room, but again so private as to convince me that not a soul could exist in the world but the two of us in this shadowed corner of it. I did not draw my hand away, but held his penetrating gaze. The dim candle was reflected like starlight in the arcs of our glasses, in the darkness of his eyes.

“What are your plans,” he intoned.

“In a broader sense?”

“To-night.”

I shook my head ever so slightly.

“Would you care to join me?” he inquired.

“Yes,” I said, inaudibly.

Vestra was the first to recover, freeing me from his enchantment. He pushed up from the table, dropping a crisp bill onto it. He moved slowly, deliberately, coaxing me to the door. I trailed close behind and into the street, in a half-daze, overwrought with feelings of hope and trepidation. Vestra hovered to my left, an intimate hand at the small of my back, loath to relinquish hold of me. The narrow street was quiet, the court empty but for the tiny square fountain flowing resolutely at the centre of it. Before Vestra could angle us in the direction of home, I brought us aside to the mouth of the alley beside Valencourt. He went without resistance, folding easily at my touch. I stepped as close as I would dare. I ran my fingers over the peaks of his knuckles, chasing the exquisite citrine of his eyes again.

I kissed him. A chaste brush, the barest hint of breath.

It was not a revelation. It was a completion. A culmination of the past year. Of every unuttered confession, every longing gaze. Between Vestra’s lips was every destination of lonely nights and hopeful dreams. Two reddened promises of more to come. Vestra swallowed thickly, and then with a sharp intake of air and an impassioned burst of unrestrained emotion, he pulled us into the alley.

He knocked me roughly against the brick, cupping the back of my head tenderly as he hovered above. He gloated upon me with famished eyes, the depths of them as profound as the country skies at night. From my head to my heels I was flush to the alley wall such that I felt I was floating, that if Vestra retreated but a half-step, I should tip over into his embrace. And he angled down to me, that scant distance, the shadow of him obstructing the dim glow of the street lights, the moon above. He shrouded me in darkness, sharing in its obscuring embrace. Surely he could feel the beat of my own frantic heart, for I myself was nearly faint with it. I awaited the firm line of his lips with a senseless longing as they descended upon me, my eyes drifting shut with the force of his gaze. But it was not the kiss for which I so vitally desired that he delivered, but his lips to my ear; and he whispered:

“The thief is here.”

And at that moment, all my surety was consumed in dread, like the apex of a long fall earthward. My grip tightened on his hips as I froze, floundering to recover my senses, pulled with a sharp tug in my chest like that of a fish on a line that has consumed the hook whole.

“In the building across the courtyard,” he warned. “On the top floor.”

“Why here?”

“This is Staraya Carnation. After visiting Mr. Hevring’s it occurred to me we may be followed.”

“But you told me that --”

“I told you nothing more than that Mile Garden showed promise.”

“I see. This and the dinner are only pretext to capture the thief.”

“Is that what you think of me?” he murmured, the hand cupping my head now descending to hover over the thick pulse at my neck. “That I could do anything for only one reason? Would you prefer me so neglectful?”

“I prefer you to be forthcoming,” I said with a restless shiver, taking Vestra by the shoulders. “When this thing is done to-night, and we are both returned home – I prefer you to be forthcoming.”

“I could not deny you,” he murmured. “Now, come. We will go round the Valencourt. It will find us near a point of ingress to the far building.”

Vestra took my hand and led us down the alley. It was a short sprint past empty bins and the smell of wasting food that found us before a metal side door. Well enough it was unlocked, and we wasted no time in entering. The dim gaslights lining the walls were a stark contrast to the darkness of the night outside, a small and grateful boon. Vestra set off towards the nearest set of stairs, and I trailed behind. I wondered what we would do upon reaching the top, what direction this could possibly take. Were we not unprepared for such an encounter? But I knew to put my trust in Vestra, in his certitude, his eagerness.

Before we came to the top floor, Vestra exclaimed something with great urgency, abandoning the stairwell and whipping down the hall to disappear round a corner. He must have spied our quarry, anxious not to lose them. I pursued as best I could, but the rough sound of Vestra’s footfalls was fading maddeningly quickly. I ran the whole of the floor to find no one, halting before another stair at the opposite side of the building, straining my ear to the sound of some pursuit. I took a chance and continued upwards, hoping to find them in conflict at the top, but with only one flight could I begin to hear Vestra’s voice again. It was a low and even timbre, and I sighed inwardly in relief. I looked out to find a door in the hall ajar, the murmur of his words escaping through it, and cautiously I entered.

The room was faintly illuminated by a small and square window set in the middle of the far wall. The window was unadorned, the wooden floor laid over with a threadbare carpet, no furniture nor decoration. Vestra stood by the right wall, a shadow but for the penumbra of light reflected off the white of his collar. Upon the door opening fully, his eyes flashed to mine, a piercing and sickly yellow.

“Von Aegir,” he said in a warning tone.

“There is no need to make this difficult, Vestra,” said a disembodied voice. “You’ve taken from the duchess; I’ve come to take something from you.”

“We had come to an arrangement some time ago,” responded Vestra, “that he should remain from concern.”

“When have you ever made excuses, Vestra?” and the form of a woman coalesced in the far left corner of the room, shaking her head slightly. “The duchess might still vouch for you, though I cannot say that she would ever trust you again; I thought that that time deliberating should be better spent on other matters – that I could take away that axis of uncertainty.”

“Better to ask forgiveness than permission. Best of all to serve, unknown.”

“Vestra...” I quivered.

“So we are in accord,” she said, pulling a pistol from the small of her back, and pointing it at my head. My heart stopped. “Now, I will have the crest,” and there was the sound of a trigger, perhaps, quickly being pulled: with precision, with purpose, practised and unhesitating. I stared down the barrel, a mere flash in the darkness, like the glint in the eye of the beast, and that same fleeting prayer came to my mind as I glimpsed the face of death.

_Not yet._

And an instant later, the deafening shot as the bullet exploded from its chamber. My knees buckled, a blooming ache in my chest, thunderous blood in my ears. I could only kneel there as I waited for the agony that must follow, of the freezing touch of metal in my lung.

And it never came.

I opened my eyes to see her lying there, cradling her abdomen, a crimson trickle from between her clenched fingers. I gasped through the relief, the confounding disorientation of not being shot, the utter absurdity of it all as Vestra lowered his arm, as his revolver was returned to the confines of his waistcoat. He strode over to the woman falling against the papered wall, recovering the pistol that had plummeted from her hand, and stepped back again. In the feeble light of that one small window, Vestra considered her for a moment, satisfied perhaps, that she had been properly incapacitated. It was chilling to see him like this: a prophetic silhouette in an unfamiliar window, his face masked in shadow, anonymous and threatening.

“Vestra,” was all that I could think to say through the maelstrom of activity in my mind. Surely the woman was gasping in her rage and suffering, my own panicked breath echoing round the room, but I registered no sound but Vestra’s voice. The deliberate and metered rumbling whisper of his words.

“I was glad to know you, Ferdinand.”

“What do you mean?” I trembled, almost inaudible.

He turned to me fully, and from where he stood, he seemed to be looking down on me from a great distance, through our countless moments and hours in time, to the man he had met on that blustery Horsebow day. To Ferdinand Von Aegir, the minister’s son. The stranger.

“Vestra, please,” I whispered.

And he raised his arm, and I never could have prepared myself. For that indescribable pain that lanced over my shoulder, down my arm; metal passing easily through flesh, lodging in muscle, glancing off bone. All my breath was forced from me in an instant, the world spinning in a violent blur of blacks and whites. What was the pain of this, compared to the beast? I could no longer remember, could no longer think. I found myself prostrate on the floor, the pattern of the timeworn carpet suddenly so fascinating: swirling royal blue flowers faded to grey; and the patent black leather of Vestra’s shoes upon it, emerging from some impossible distance. I could not turn my head to see his face.

From the dimming corners of my vision, a pale hand reached out to me. And I knew no more.

There was the sound of murmuring. I registered it as a hum. Like the buzz of a bee. Sleep took me again.

“… If your intention is to make me distrust you, then you h… a prefect job of it.”

“… exactly my intention...”

“And what purpose does… at serve?”

“None, I’m sure..”

I reached up to the saffron coloured stone sparkling at her delicate neck. She crouched down so that I could hold it in one tiny hand, the waves of her hair like molten gold. The image of a winged staff overwhelmed my view. I could not see her face.

“… think that he knows?”

“It is possible. We will keep him under ob…”

“Ferdinand.”

I slowly opened my eyes.

“Good morning,” said a smiling voice. The light was blinding.

“It is lovely… to see you again, Miss Arnault,” I responded feebly.

“Oh Ferdinand, why must you insist on making things more difficult for yourself?”

“Nonsense.”

She sat herself in a narrow wooden chair below the window. The creaks it emitted echoed dully throughout the small room.

“Lady misses you.”

“I miss her, too. Thank you, so very much,” I said, gasping a lungful of air, “for taking care of her in my absence.”

“Of course,” she said. It appeared that she would go on to say something, but seemed to think better of it.

“Is there any news?” I asked.

“I’m afraid none. There has been no sign of him.” She paused to consider me. I resisted the urge to turn away. “What would you do? Were you to see him again.”

I slowly closed my eyes, returning for a moment, to the crystalline sparks endlessly writhing there.

“When we first met, he was a dreadful man…. I sought to understand him. To navigate those wicked edges and circuitous paths. There was a resistance in him, a fear, I thought... of vulnerability; that the dread was to obscure a kindness that he himself had deemed a weakness. But gradually, there became moments that he could reveal himself to me. I came to know his habits, his peculiarities, preferences, the way he walked, the airy timbre of his voice. I believed that I had known him…. And now finally I have,” I answered, but it was no answer at all.

She sat there so primly, hands tucked over her lap, every lock of her auburn hair impeccable; and she looked at me with such a sadness, as though she would go back to when this all began, to undo my and Vestra’s very meeting. As though she could.

The brick façade of 403 Orchard loomed above me. I made my way inside, slow on the stair, drawing a key from my pocket. The door swung open forlornly and without resistance. The air was hot and stagnant, the curtains drawn close. Two armchairs stood vigilant by the hearth, the settee on the right wall seeming to sag with its own weight, the writing desk bare. It felt as though it had on the first day. I pulled open the windows. The wind was warm and sent dust sprawling through the air, but it cleared some of the fog from my mind.

A bright white spot on the floor by the open door arrested my attention. As I neared, the form and shape of it coalesced into the folds of an envelope, sealed, but unsigned. Could it have been there a moment before? Waiting for days and weeks for my return. Or had it only now come into existence, as though conjured by my presence. It was a small and inconsequential mystery in the face of all things.

I took it, pulling with trepidation at the black seal of wax.

Dearest Ferdinand Von Aegir [it said],

My life has ever been dedicated to a single goal. Each step I take is infallibly in service of it. I had walked the shadowed paths without hesitation, but then you came upon me, and your light blinded me from it. You burned away the path, and I was lost. I do not blame you. Is it not the nature of the sun to shine, to draw forth life? And I was too weak to deny you, as well and as much as I tried. It is hateful to die, my work unfinished, to return to nothingness before my dreams’ complete, but I find it far more hateful to live on forgetting my purpose. As such, I have arranged this letter to be sent upon my death, to settle that which I have left behind.

In the locked upper right drawer of my writing desk, you will find my revolver. If ever you feel in danger, do not hesitate to make use of it. You will also find a large brown envelope containing the next six months’ rent. Hopefully it will be sufficient time to give you as you decide to remain at 403 Orchard or to move elsewhere in my absence. You may sell, burn, or lend any of my possessions as you see fit. I will have no more need of them. I ask that you send my apologies to Miss Arnault. I had an outstanding arrangement with her that I will no longer be able to carry out. To you, Von Aegir, I will not hope for fortune or good health, but know that it will find you, inexorably. And believe me to be,

Very sincerely yours,

Hubert von Vestra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	6. The Vampire of Sulevis Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The victorians were very fond of italicising loan words, like catastrophe, which typically one does not think of as a loan word. Which leaves me constantly wondering whether a word is sufficiently french enough to get the italics.
> 
> Was listening to Plans We Made by Son Lux on repeat while writing this. And for the previous chapter, I forgot to mention, that for The Shot scene I had Babe I’m Gonna Leave You by Led Zeppelin in the background. It might have been a bit of a spoiler anyways.

I turned the key in the lock with a practised hand and quietly closed the door behind me. It was unnaturally quiet, and I hummed to myself to dispel that awful din of silence. I lit a fire in the grate and boiled myself a cup of tea - an Almyran blend. Foregoing my delicate teacup and saucer, I pulled a mug from the cupboards. On my way from the kitchen, I caught up the morning paper from the table and sat down at my spot before the hearth.

The paper went to the elegant little stool at my elbow, and the mug I cupped between my hands, the radiating heat thawing my chilled fingers. I stared into the flames, letting them lick over my damp boots, meditative, releasing the stresses of the day to float off into the atmosphere and join that great fog of Enbarr air. I focused only on the graceful flicker of scarlet and amber, the delicate pitter and snap of the wood. One bleached piece of kindling caught at the end, slowly turning black with ash as the flames advanced upon it, caressing its edges, until the whole of it was engulfed. The sharp pungency of berries rose to my nose with the steam from my cup, and I brought it to my lips to take a shallow sip. Carefully I placed it on the stool and picked up the paper, which I habitually fanned out in front of me. This morning I had missed my usual wake-up call, and subsequently scurried to work without my usual breakfast and light reading; and though overdue, I enjoyed it no less.

At centre front was an update on Dagda: the empire had just secured Brigid – a monumental win against the enemy – and the war was projected to conclude within the year. There were some interesting articles concerning my sport of choice, and stock I had invested in. I quickly passed over the agony columns.

I was about to put the paper away when a word caught my eye. It was a tiny article, not more than ten sentences, wedged in the margins of a story about some sort of league of red headed men. I read over it, and then again, a pit of worry growing in my stomach. I put the paper in my lap, the words still taunting in the edges of my vision. I folded it and threw the thing wholly into the fire. It flared up fiercely before settling; and still I stood there, taut with apprehension, a flurry of questions in my head.

I went to my room in a daze, haphazardly collecting clothes into a duffel, gaining momentum and speed as I went. I knew that if I did not leave as soon as I could, I would not have the courage to go at all. I took the gun from the depths of my drawers, where it had slept quietly all this time, and shoved it to the bottom of my bag. I galloped out the door, hat askew and topcoat overhanging my arm. I hailed a taxi, and within the hour I was on the train to Sulevis.

It was a small town, Sulevis, on the coast of Rusalka, and it recalled to memory my own home of Drothin with its sprawling houses and stout stone buildings. It lacked the high hills and beautiful valleys, but it had its own beauty in endless waves of verdant grass and magnificent chalk cliffs that plunged down to sandy shoals. A precarious earth married with the powerful tumult of the Morfianic Sea.

I stepped off the train, sore from hours couched in anxiety, and asked after the nearest lodgings, which was to be a quarter hour ride east towards the coast. I took to my feet instead, not confident that my constitution could accommodate a rumbling cab, and appreciated the nature of the country that I had not seen since my father had died. I crested a hill and there was the heart of the town suddenly, the road transitioning quickly to a sparse cobble until I reached The Red Fiddle.

It was a well worn but homely establishment, and the lodge-keeper was welcoming and professional. I booked a room without trouble, a crowded corner affair overlooking a tiny vegetable garden, but the bed was of a good size, the bedclothes still smelling of the late fall air. I sunk bodily into the comfort of it, still in my day attire, suddenly immensely fatigued. The last week’s efforts had been biting at my heels, had finally caught me in the advent of my quest; not a time I could afford, but one that I must take, lest I collapse in the streets instead. I curled onto my side and closed my eyes, and it was quiet and lonely once again.

I awoke to the slate gloom of an approaching sunrise. I swung the window out to the crisp air, and a finch darted past on lightning wings. I did not meet with anyone on my way out, but I rather preferred it that way. I walked up the dirt path to the stables, the feel of worn leather and Dorte’s smooth coat already soothing under my fingertips. She was awake, keen as ever. She missed the others, I could see it in her eyes, just as much as she could see it in mine.

Something about to-day was momentous, even in the consequence of my father’s death; something important and insidious lingering but never remembered. I could not recall why I should have felt afraid; there was only the shallow sense of unease. I shrugged the nebulous impression away.

We started into the forest, that lovely path showing its neglect in every overgrown bush and clinging vine. Later to-day I would commit a few hours to its restoration. I slid the reins over my palms, craning my head up to the canopy above. The moon still sat as a sliver, a sharp silver crescent slicing through the limb of a wispy cloud. Dorte slowed in my distraction, rounding in a little mossy clearing. This was where the oleander bloomed, my mind told me. This was where it happened. Where it will happen, though I may forget.

I dropped down to draw a flower from its bed, spinning it between the thumb and forefinger, a plump pirouette of white petals. The stem where I pinched it grew a red hue and dropped to the ground, bead of blood welling up on my thumb. I licked it clean, not wondering from where the cut had come, for the blood had always been there, waiting for something to draw it out.

Dorte whinnied behind me, a sudden and immediate sound. I spun to meet it in the air, and she repeated it with greater force, rearing up, eyes afire in fear. I remembered then, what happened to-day as she bolted off into the trees, a snarling silver beast forming in the wake of her. It did not circle, did not wait for some unseen signal: in one instant I was standing, and the next I was brought violently to the earth, the molten pain of needle teeth plunging into my leg. It quivered with relish at the taste of my blood, and in that instinctive ripple of shining fur, the whole of its coat burned away to charcoal, the blackened shadow of itself hunched over me. The sun that broke over the horizon was no longer rising, but setting; the moon a grey orb at the apex of the world.

The beast sunk thick claws into my side, dragging me nearer. The moss beneath my back was soft as down, and the beast all the more cruel for it. It licked a sinuous pink tongue along the seam of my hip, threatening the exposed artery there, saliva dripping from its maw. It hovered, glowing citrine eyes cold and incalculable, flexing its grip over my ravaged ribs, penetrating deeper. I cried out, bucking away and rolling to my stomach, dampened trousers clinging to my thighs. Immediately it lunged upon me again, thrusting deep into my back with a burning vigour, exquisite agony. My heart battered behind my breast, blood rushing to my extremities, an unrepentant throbbing ache welling up in my core. But the horror of it all was nothing to the heated whispers he murmured into the shell of my ear:

 _Ferdinand_.

I must have fallen asleep after some fitful time, for when I opened my eyes again, a sallow light illuminated the room. I found that I had set my duffel upon a chair, had presumably locked the door at some point I could not recall. I let my feet slip to the polished oak floor, impressions of phantoms dissipating outwards as I gained verticality. All daylight had not yet escaped me, and so I brushed the wrinkles from my suit and stood. I collected my bill-fold and topcoat from the duffel, hesitating over the place where I knew the gun to lie at the bottom of it. I drew it out, and it went to the inside of my jacket, unforgivably innocuous. I left the room, tipping my hat to the lodge-keeper on my way through the front door. I was eager to begin my investigation but, standing on the doorstep looking out into the empty street, I was lost at where to start. I had left my home with only the barest plan, which standing here agog had revealed to be no plan at all.

“First things first, and second things second: a meal and then… and then maybe I will be lucky,” I murmured, squinting away from the sun.

The first shop I passed by with food in its window, I entered – a _patisserie_ – and ordered myself a tea and scone. It was mostly empty at this time of day, so as I waited for the clerk to ready my order, I felt comfortable in asking if she knew anything about the article which had sent me flying to Sulevis in such a sorry state.

“Oh, that deal, eh. Two or three farmers have had trouble with livestock going missing for a while now. Thought it was someone pilfering, looking for an easy winter, but then Mr. Brown almost caught whatever it was, so he says, teeth deep in one o’ his sheep right there in the field. Got a look at the poor animal, and it was near torn to shreds. Some sorta creature like a man the size of a bear, with needle teeth and what glowed in the moonlight. The Vampire of Sulevis, he says. Now, I see the horror on your face, don’t you worry. Nobody be taking him serious, it’s helping attract people even. People like you?”

She handed me my tea and scone on a plate.

“You have a vampire?” I asked.

“Of course we have a vampire. Any self-respectin’ backwater needs a proper folk-tale. What would people around here talk about without one? The weather? Everyone’s obsessed about the weather.”

“My own childhood was plagued with fairy-tales,” I lowered my voice, “but I found that some tales have more truth to them than one might hope.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“If that’s the case, then you would want to stay away from the forest that drops away into the coast. That’s where it lives, they say. Summat dangerous anyhow. Lose your way, and you might find yourself at the bottom of a very steep cliff, very quickly.”

“Thank you for the warning,” I smiled, “And the lovely tea.”

After I had eaten, I asked the clerk where I might find this Mr. Brown, if she would not mind telling me, and it was a large farm about nineteen miles south that he lived. The hour was too late to be straying so far from my bed, but there was time enough to survey the forest by the coast; and besides, I was in dire need for some time to reörganise my thoughts.

Despite my sudden departure, I knew Quintas to be more than competent without me for a few days, a week if need be; but what of after? If this case was not to be solved swiftly, how long could I justify my stay? How quickly could I convince the townspeople that they were subject to a far more immediate danger than that of a slain lamb or a fallow crop? That the patient wiles of time meant nothing in the eyes of the beast. What would it take for a stranger to convince a man of the end of his world? Everything. Much more than I could muster.

But I was not wholly alone in this. Did not the Drothin constabulary know as much as I, if not more? Bergliez could be called upon. Or... perhaps he no longer resided in the town, would not be able to exact any influence here even if he were. Sulevis and Drothin were not a world away by any means, but what guarantee was there that he could accomplish anything substantial in short enough time? And where had the beast emerged from? Could it have a connection with the first? I had never seen the body, in the end. What if there had been made some mistake, that it had lived, in truth? Or that it had died and returned to life, as though conjured from a dream. Conjured from a nightmare. It was a vexing labyrinth of conjecture with no solution apparent.

Before the sun fully set, I arrived at the coast. A wind gusted as I neared the water, my senses awash with the brisk clean air of the sea. I came to a high bluff, the end of which fell precipitously downward, a magnificent white wall of eroding stone. Along the escarpment to my right, some three miles away, was the forest of which I had been warned, glowing softly in the orange sunset haze. Far to the left and back a ways from the water, there was a little cottage standing alone; and between those gentle dips and curves of the plain, it was somewhat like a boat over the calm waters of a lake.

I followed the cliff edge south, waves crashing deep below me in a chaotic rhythm of a god speaking in ways I could not understand, the distant caw of gulls overhead echoing on the wind, and some dark thing circling inside my soul. I felt at my left shoulder, pushing a thumb to the old wound there, and it returned the ghost of a pain not quite healed, the half-forgotten memory of a thing I had held so dear. The ache of sleepless days and nights in a cold empty room of the hospital ward, visited intermittently by the hazy faces of friends, but never the one I hoped for. The one I feared the most. The one I begged for in my pain induced sojourn. And I scattered these thoughts with a generous wave of my hand before me, as though the vision of him could be put away like an old photograph into a box, to be forgotten til one wistful future year where the feelings had separated themselves in such a way that I might be able to survive.

I focused ahead to see that the forest was nearly upon me. It was not a gradual growth, but a stark delineation of trees, ominous and abundant, as though the world around it – the field, the clear air – were fearful of encroaching upon its space. The narrow footpath that I had been walking dissipated long ago, knowing not to overstep as I had done. The red glow of a waning sun had faded now to a twilit wash of greys, and the verdant fields from which I had come were dead and silent.

I considered the longer route, to return as I had come, to walk along the barren cliff and take the dirt road to town, but I could see the lights from here, coaxing warmth from fires beyond curtained windows. So I made my way towards it, those will-o-wisps of promised safety, and cut through the unmarred fields, the forest witness to my every step astride it. But with each degree of waning light did a dread creep over me, the mounting premonition of being watched.

I imagined myself through the eyes of the beast, vulnerable, clumsy. Perhaps it would recognise the slight limp, the aftermath of one of its own, an instinct to complete that which had begun so long ago, the graceless sound of my footfalls through the tall grass enticingly clear. And then, as though summoned by my thoughts, a tall black shape flickered at the edge of the trees. I was arrested of movement, did scarcely turn my head, fearing to acknowledge it. As the seconds passed, that figure would not dissipate but rather solidify in my mind. A creature tall and thin as my faded shadow stretched upon the ground, a spark of light like the glint in the eye of a great cat, and hunched as if recalling a time when it had walked upon two legs but was now disfigured and feral. Through my fear I shifted my head, and by degrees did I turn to look at it hidden there amongst the ancient trees, to confront that terrifying and grotesque creature. But it had vanished.

Surely a single blink could not dispel such a horror – it had only slithered deeper into the forest; and to affirm my fears, a cacophonous growl rose from its depths, a fearful and breathtaking sound I had heard only once before on a cool autumn morning; amplified now by the harsh pounding waters of the Morfianic such that the sustained clattering of yips and barks sounded as though all the host of hell were marching through the forest. It commanded I return, to take to my heels across the fields to the safety of the town. I felt a war within me: curiosity and righteousness, panic and despair; and as I took one faltering step northwards, it was only the momentary iron touch of the revolver that stopped me. I drew it out, a reassuring weight in my palm. It called out to my resolve, and back into the wall of trees. How could I leave now, at the cusp of discovery, to let the beast find another victim? I gripped the gun tightly, letting myself be led into the forest, to the _epitome_ of my resolution.

To slay the beast.

I passed over that leafy threshold, the sounds of wind and water far off and faded. The ground was gnarled with roots, the whole of it blanketed in a wet layer of moss. It should have eased my passing, muffling my nervous steps, but it only served to accent my rough and harried breaths, the palpitations of my excited heart tripping me at almost every moment. I traced a path through the trees, not one of human making, but rather of the beast. Of the empty air that followed in its wake, in through which creeped the pulsing cacophony of a silent threat. This stalking of the beast an interminable wait, growing less sure at every moment that I was still the hunter, and not the hunted.

Presently I heard, not a sound, but the absence of it, the weight of watching eyes, of the constriction before the strike. And finally it revealed itself some ten feet ahead of me, greatly obscured by the trunk of a tree, black as coal, pale patches of skin shining like shifting moonlight. I levelled the revolver to the flash of its golden eye, and it screamed, lunging forwards in a violent rush of limbs, sounds almost like words. Like a voice from a nightmare. In the pale suggestion of light that remained, the shadow took the shape of a man. He held a rifle in the crook of an arm, and he raised it, even as I lowered my own in stupefaction. And he called my name, a deep and fatal fear in every letter of it as a shot rang out, and I was struck.

I knew no more.

I awoke in an unfamiliar room in an unfamiliar house. It was small but comforting, not picturesque to the point of artifice but well-lived. Slowly I scanned the room, taking in the many tomes laid over a large writing desk, the warmth from the fireplace before me, the rough texture of the worn divan I was propped upon. I took in a deep breath: the strong scent of coffee, not completely offensive to me, recalling to mind another time. And finally to the man standing over the kitchen counter, patiently tending to a tea tray.

He had appeared in dreams just like this: his back turned, white sleeves rolled to the elbow, suspenders hanging loose over his trousers. He was quite tall, a certain way to his shoulders that made him look tense, always. His black hair was wind tousled and curled softly around the nape of his neck. He was vulnerable, innocent, the years of dark deeds cleaved from his visage. Young. Younger than he could possibly be. In the dream he would turn and be some other stranger man. This vision here, too, would turn round and be some other, stranger, man. No one so painful. No one so full of fear. The view beyond the windows was pitch, a fixed nothingness. Only this room existed in all the world, a cardboard box, no pinholes pricked for air; running low, running down to a wheezing silver thread. I had been placed here, saved from something, but saved for later. It hurt but there was a longing there, too, something never overcome, merely forgotten, to rear up again when least expected. Like those dreams I hardly remember. There were consequences for those, too.

I felt that I must have stared transfixed for ages, for I could not believe the truth that my eyes told me. I stood abruptly, overcome with the desire to be free of this place at once, away from the ghost, but in my haste and dimmed faculties, my errant leg found the edge of the low side table, and it’s contents found their way to the floor. I felt myself falling too, head spinning and darkness edging at my vision, when a firm hand grasped me by the elbow and another at my back as we both sank to the carpet.

This was just another dream, it did not matter. The words flowed free, they were not meant to. They were antique and obsolete, they did not mean anything to who I was any more, to who he had become that day. But I said them regardless. I said them as I meant to before, before they had become incompatible with reality.

“ _I loved you_ ,” I whispered, defeated. Seated on the floor, head bowed, I could not look into his face.

“...I understand,” he said sorrowfully.

“Do you.”

I swallowed roughly. I could not admit to what I had expected. Enough times I had imagined the words but I could never have predicted the circumstances. It no longer mattered. All answers had become the same, had adopted equal inconsequence. I pulled myself to the divan, and Vestra stood, the professional distance of a narrow stance, arms sequestered behind his back. He waited, overlooking me nervously for some time, rendered speechless by my formidable mien. He opened his mouth again, preparing to speak, but I could not bear to hear any excuse he might dare to make.

“Where have you brought me,” I growled.

“The beast nearly had you. I fired on it, and though wounded, it escaped. You had suffered a significant blow to the head which rendered you unconscious…. I carried you here, where I have been living. That cottage in the field.”

I laughed coldly.

“You could have been anywhere in the world, and you were only a day’s travel away.”

“Whether a day or a month, you were never to find me.”

“But I have!” looking into his face for the first time, “And what am I to gain from it? The company of a thief and my would-be murderer! I am trapped in this darkness with him, I --”

“You need not fear me --”

“Silence!” My heart hammered in my chest, I felt faint, a constricting wrath having taken hold of me. He shut up like a trap. I almost felt guilty. “Leave me,” I gasped, head in my hands, that short burst of anger the only vigour I had left in me.

Vestra went as commanded, past the scope of my limited view, head down-turned as it was. There was the creaking of stairs, a quiet ascent, and he was gone. I attempted to formulate plans of escape, but my body would not obey, could not parse the immediate threat of remaining – if not to my physical preservation, then to that of my soul. I merely lay down and closed my eyes, surrendering again to the swirling waterfall of sparks behind them.

I awoke, parched and with a pronounced throbbing in my jaw, my shoulder aching as if newly shot. I pressed fingertips over the right side of my face, and the flesh was tender and warm. The light out the window was a pale grey, not yet sunrise. The squabbling chatter of small birds, buzzing bees. Inside was the quiet of an empty house, occupied with a gentle wind to turn the pages of open books temporarily set aside, and to sway the cloth left overhanging on a wooden chair, until its inhabitants could return. I wondered who had lived here before. It was uncharacteristic of Vestra, I could not imagine him conjuring a place like this one. It was a childhood home, a childhood memory, love infusing its every stone.

The rattle of a doorknob alerted me to someone entering. From where I lay I only heard the door swing open, the deliberately hushed footfalls over the threshold. He sighed softly like nothing I had heard from him before, unrestrained and sullen. A groan escaped me as I sat upright, slouching heavily over the back of the divan. Vestra was halfway through the motion of pulling a veiled hood from over his head.

“I had not meant to wake you,” he said, slipping out of an airy full-body smock, and hanging it upon a hook by the entrance.

“I was awake,” I combed a tangled lock of hair from my face without looking at him. “You tend bees.”

“Hmm.”

“I would say that it does not suit you, but I do not really know you, do I.”

“They are industrious and purposeful in their nature, with the benefit of the collective to absolve themselves of the consequences of self sacrifice.”

“Is that… envy for the bee that dies from stinging to protect that which it treasures? Or scorn for the bee that can do nothing more but sacrifice itself?”

“The truly solitary creature must always prioritise its life,” said Vestra, “or its goals can never be achieved. There can be no… passing on of wills.”

“What are you….” I trailed off, too weary to complete the thought.

“Would you like some tea? There is not much in the way of food but --.”

“No.”

“Very well,” Vestra spoke softly. He opened a storage compartment beneath the stair, drew a large rucksack from it. I recognised the long form of a hunting rifle next, and I tensed fast as a taut bow string. He held it carefully, projecting his movements in a way clearly meant to pacify.

“The beast,” Vestra enunciated, “I suspect it yet lives. You are free to remain here or….” He swallowed. “You may use the place as you see fit.” He ran a distracted hand over the stock, then strapped the rifle to the side of his rucksack, swinging the whole of it over his back. “I’ll return most likely in the late evening.”

His hand was on the door before I could speak up, but my voice was mercifully even as I bid him back.

“I will go with you.”

Vestra stopped, turning laboriously slowly into the room again. He drew something from the rucksack as he walked over to me, communicating in broad strokes that it was my revolver. He gripped the barrel of it lightly, index finger extended along the length like a lifeline, offering it to me, head nearly bowed in deference. I took it, the momentary brush between our fingers unavoidable, his orchestration of intimacy. He did not push further, but rounded on the door again, waiting for me to follow, as if his heart could be satisfied by this sparest touch. And just as likely there had been no intent, merely coincidence and my wretched imaginings. I stalked past him, pushing the gun into the pocket of my topcoat, and he closed the door behind us.

Just as Vestra had said, we had been in that little cottage I had remarked upon in my initial survey of the area. There was a short line of stout trees around the back where wooden bee boxes populated the grass beside it, a line of clothes strung up between a tree and the thatch roof. I turned away from it all and towards the forest, Vestra already a few yards off, overcoat billowing about his knees. I started after him, a bit unsteady on my feet, but I steeled my resolve and committed myself to the long trek over the fields. I wondered how Vestra hoped to find the beast in all this vast maze of trees, more so if it was wounded and convinced to hiding itself. Last night, too, had he been intending to hunt the creature or merely game for the coming winter months? It was a well-practised skill of his, then, honed over his time in the countryside of Rusalka, the city of Enbarr, and any number of other places besides.

“Why were you out in that forest last night?” I questioned.

“I had been hunting the beast.”

“So you came to Sulevis to kill it.”

“It was a recent addition to the local fauna, despite the legend. I had finally gleaned the location of its den, the very place where I had planned to spring my trap. But before I came upon it, I saw you…. I had not intended to be discovered but I was...”

“Dismayed to see that I was still alive,” I disrupted venomously.

He said nothing but continued walking. We had come close enough to the thick line of trees that he unslung the rifle from his back, cradling it in his arms. I drew my own gun out, listening intently for animal sounds in the distance.

“I heard the calling of the beast,” said Vestra, “and I knew that you would chase after it. I could not have expected for you to succeed, however. What took me over a fortnight, you had accomplished with a half hour of stumbling through the undergrowth. And I saw you standing there, the beast stalking you completely unawares while you had erroneously set your sights on myself instead. It downed you in a moment and I feared –,” he viciously pushed a branch from his path as we passed the treeline. “It was a round to the flank and another to the chest that it fled. I dare not pursue it with you unconscious on the forest floor.”

“I should bless my fortune, then, that you were so considerate to save me from my own folly,” I barked.

He might have apologised, a many useless empty words. As it was, he did not slow, did not turn to look in my direction. I craned my head about now that we were in the forest proper, to ascertain whether I might recognise any particular features from the night previous, and catalogued new ones, should I need to return without Vestra's guidance. Nothing was clearly familiar to me, but sure enough Vestra had brought us to the very place of our cursed meeting, a dark splash of blood in the dirt to mark the occasion. It led out over the sun dappled forest floor, fading quickly. For a half hour Vestra traced the trail, and I him, fainter and fainter until I could no longer see a trail at all, that it seemed Vestra was moving forward on instinct alone.

And what if he were leading me into the depths only to more easily dispose of me? What a fool I was, then, to follow him so recklessly. But he never turned round to pull the rifle on me. He was merely the moss muffled steps ceaselessly marching towards a grotesque and savage danger.

I was beginning to tire already, my empty stomach no more favourable than my right leg, and it was a burgeoning concern that I would not be able to keep pace. My wariness of making Vestra aware of this however, fuelled me for another quarter hour, by which time he had slowed to a crawl, asserting the need for silence. He put up a hand in signal for us to stop, then pointed twenty feet ahead to the gnarled roots of a tree that had fallen over an outcropping of rock. He mouthed two words, _the den_ , readying the rifle and inching towards the innocuous mound. I stopped where I was and trained the revolver on a dark shadow in the wall of green that I hoped to be the entrance, ready for the beast to come roaring out of it. Vestra wound his way through the trees to crouch right before it, aiming down the sights now at something I could not see. A shot rang out, a reverberating crack, and I half expected a scatter of birds or a pained whimper from the bush, but it was only the barest intimation of the bullet hitting home.

Vestra straightened, running gloved fingers through his hair with a measured huff. He set the rifle down, along with his rucksack, stooping under the wall of branches and leafy vines. I approached, still cautious but lowering the gun, and Vestra emerged, dragging something heavily behind him. I bounded over, slipping my weapon away again, and grabbed up a handful of oily black fur, aiding Vestra with pulling the body from its den.

It was not as heavy as I expected, nearly seven feet long but thin enough in its limbs that I could see bone protruding under the skin; more than heavy enough, however, that one man would have great trouble moving it on his own. After we had gotten the whole of it out, Vestra unceremoniously dropped the limb with which he had been pulling, walking back to his pack and taking a glass jug of water from it. I subsided to the mossy ground, catching my breath, a comfortable distance away from the creature’s corpse.

Its right flank was matted with dried blood and its head, too; a large chunk at the base of its ear hanging off the skull such that the bone underneath showed through. I could see the path of a third bullet from under the right jaw and out the opposing eye – the bullet that Vestra had just fired.

“It seems that it was already dead,” said he, offering the jug. Begrudgingly I took it, downing one large grateful draught.

I considered the beast again, to compare it to the memory. I had only a glimpse of the one that had attacked me in the past, its eyes the clearest image in my mind. There had been an intelligence of feeling, and looking now into the glazed and vacant depths of its sightless gaze, I was sure that there had been a suffering there as well. The fevered brightness reflected in the eye from a terror so great that was instinct to all creatures, human most of all. I was glad to see it dead.

“And now?” I uttered.

“It must be properly disposed of. Burned.”

“Can it not be left to the elements? No one will find it here.”

“It is possible the flesh is corruptive in some way. It should not be left to rot here.”

“And you did not stop me from touching it with my bare hands?”

“It is sustained exposure that is potentially dangerous,” he peeled the thick leather from his hands, “You may take my gloves if you prefer – in fact it would put me at better ease if you did so.”

“What is it that causes this… corruption. Some exotic parasite, or is it somehow a natural aspect of the creature? It is only a bear, is it not?”

“I have been studying the origins of the beast, how such a thing could come into existence, and am not yet assured of the specifics, but it is better to possess ourselves in caution to save ourselves from regret later.”

I snatched the gloves from him.

“There is something you are not telling me, as ever. You could not help yourself.”

“You are right,” he said, like an apology.

Vestra went to fish ropes from his rucksack next, and began tying up the beast, securing each limb and fashioning a rein with which to pull it.

“It cannot be disposed of here,” he explained, “unless we are to burn the forest down. It would be best to bring it to the escarpment. The tides will be at their lowest soon, with ample space along the beach. It will also shield the fire from prying eyes in the town as well as anything.”

“And how do you suppose we scale down the sheer rock?” I scowled.

“There is a way to walk, though it is steep. I have deliberated over this long enough, was prepared to do it myself.”

I only took a handle of the rope and began to pull.

It was slow going, the creature repeatedly catching on roots and undergrowth, but the physical strain kept my mind occupied. In a way it was the easiest thing I had done since arriving here. At length we came to the cliffs’ edge, and true to his word, there was a path down to the sea, tumbled stones and loose dirt, tree roots surging out of the rock wall. It was not perilous but not welcoming either. Vestra pushed the beast to the very edge before rearranging the ropes, letting free yards of slack.

We eased it over the edge and gradually let loose the rope, the bloody corpse lowered by degrees to the emerging beach below. With only an arm’s length of rope left, it still had not touched down, hovering ten feet above safety. There was nothing but to let it go, hoping that it would not roll into the salty waters. I looked on at the weightless horror of it falling to land with a bloody thud over the grey sands. We replenished ourselves with food that Vestra had pulled from his pack, and then went to the tedious task of building a fire.

It seemed that Vestra had already collected firewood for this purpose previously, for there was a pile of branches and quartered logs nearby. It was many trips up and down the steep slope, searching for kindling and more fuel before the fire was large enough; all the while the broken beast watched with its soulless eyes, overpoweringly blue and frighteningly human.

Hours of toil found me sitting curled up in the sand, that great wall of chalk cliff at my back, the meagre fire grown to a raging maelstrom, a funeral pyre; the great beast thrown into the centre of it, all fur now singed away, a cooking hunk of meat. Vestra descended the slope with another armload of firewood, throwing it down at his feet. He nearly collapsed to the sand, coughing roughly once before being caught up in an undignified and spacious yawn. I resisted the urge to do the same.

The fire was well tended, now only time to wait as the beast burnt down. I feared Vestra would use this lull for conversation, and this least of all interested me, so I lay my topcoat beside me and brought my head down to it. The sand stuck to the sweat of my back, but it was cool and soft, and I did not care. I feigned sleep, sinking into the dissipating ache of abused muscles. It would be hours before the body was reduced to a charcoal statue in the heart of a dying blaze; as large as it was now, what need was I to tend it when Vestra was more than capable alone? I should return home, my goal long since achieved. But the longer I remained, the less the rising and sinking suns meant. By this shore at the ends of the world, time would wait for me.

I awoke to the sunset. A momentary panic enclosed around me before I saw Vestra by the fire. It was much lower now, quieter, the waves, too, patiently crawling up the beach. I found that I had become quite cold. There was Vestra's overcoat folded neatly beside me, an invitation but not bold enough to drape it over me, wanting to do something, still. I moved closer to the fire. All that remained was bones caked in layers of soot. Vestra's hands were black with it, like something of him had burned away as well. In the serenity and silence it felt more like a ritual and less the mere disposal of a poisonous being. A burial for the beast.

“Cremation, no less,” Vestra uttered.

Evidently I had spoken the thought aloud, but the comment cleaved to something in my mind. A little doubt I had once entertained.

“It is an uncommon method,” I admitted.

“Nearly unheard of. The proletariat and bourgeoisie alike scorn the newfangled.”

“Or perhaps they object on other terms.”

He waited for me to elaborate, but with no explanation forthcoming, he abandoned the line of thought.

“You have been busy,” he said instead.

“I have spent the better part of six hours handling corpses, yes. I have been busy.”

“I meant, in a broader sense,” he murmured, recalling old words. “Your hair,” turning his eye to me, leaning in and slowly reaching out one rough hand as though to run his fingers through it, “It’s grown.”

“Don’t,” I whispered, pulling back a fraction.

I could feel the warmth from his hand, he was so close. I could not let him touch me, but could not fully pull myself away. I saw the bob of his throat as he swallowed thickly, as though to swallow down a sob, but no other evidence was to show itself on his face as he moved away again.

“The deed is all but done,” said Vestra after a time, gesturing vaguely northwards, “and it will soon grow very cold.”

“I will not bar you from your domestic comforts.”

I made no move away from the fire, and for the countless times he had to-day, again Vestra appeared on the brink of speaking, begging me for something he knew I would not give. He excused himself with a reluctant bow, gathering his rucksack and fading beyond my vision to meet with the gentle rustle of the forest above. I lingered on the beach until the fire was a smoking pit, the sea and salty air both crawling into our bones, and even longer still. Until the sun had nearly passed beyond the horizon and my hands had turned to cold stone, my feet ingraining themselves into the very earth.

At length, the beach grew tired of my presence, calling out to the sea to flood my boots with water. I retreated, joints creaking in protest, to make the short climb and the long walk back to humanity. There was a dark bundle lying nearby – all this time I had not seen it. Vestra's overcoat, forgotten. I saved it from the sand. It was robust and warm, meant for working. He would have been cold on the way back to the cottage. I slung it over my arm and left.

It was an unnerving trek through the forest, even as I followed closely to the coast so as not to loose my way. The daylight was quickly fading, and the sounds of night creatures became more frequent. Less one giant beast, but far from safe, I was sure. Shortly, I passed out of the trees with a sigh of relief, and traced the little footpath over the fields. Without thinking, I came to Vestra's door. A warm light flickered from within. I had meant only to leave the overcoat there, to return to my room in town, but on the kitchen table there was a covered plate and folded nightclothes. A note.

For you. -V

I devoured the sandwiches, and the nightclothes mocked my soil-stained shirtsleeves, but I could not take them, could not sink any further into Vestra’s influence, like drying concrete. Immortalised. I curled up upon the divan for the second night feeling properly filthy, but my exhaustion was too great to contest, and I was lost as quickly as I could close my eyes.

The curtains over the large bay window were drawn when I awoke, belying the golden glow from outside. Surely it was the afternoon, or perhaps even later, myself having slept throughout the entire morning. Vestra was seated at the round kitchen table, not the sleek carafe and diligently chosen cup, but hunched over a ceramic mug, bereft of the usual care and poise he would commit to the ritual. His self-possessed demeanour staunchly insisted that I was still asleep, and I, no more inclined to be the first to speak, remained in silence until Vestra had finally decided that acknowledging me was worth the risk of angering me. For he did not lack a wealth of words, but was afraid to speak them, any small mistake possessing the potential to send me away. In his position, even the most innocuous sentiment was grounds for reproach. He understood this.

“Good morning,” he said.

I scratched at a speck of dirt clinging to the leg of my trousers, but it only rubbed further in.

“Vestra.”

“Yes?”

“I did not regret seeing you,” I stood, “despite everything.”

He gripped the mug tightly with both hands.

"You plan to leave?” he said.

I walked towards the door, giving him a wide berth in the narrow room. Vestra surged to his feet but came no closer. I did not yet have my hand upon the knob, but I knew I must leave quickly, lest he change my mind.

“You are still injured,” he said, ashen with panic despite himself, “hours of travel would not suit you. Take some time to explore the town but before the sun sets, find me here. I could not part like this.”

“You have no right to ask anything of me.”

I stood in the open door, and Vestra tried to meet my gaze, but he could only blink back the blinding rays of the sun streaming in. Past his pale figure and lying over the divan was my topcoat, forgotten. I left without a good-bye. I hoped that it was enough for him to understand. I retreated over the fields, through the town, to return to my borrowed rooms at The Fiddle. The lodge-keeper gave me a queer look upon entering but graciously said nothing. I appreciated his candour. Upon looking into the mirror supplied to my room, I found I could not fault the man, for I was a ghastly sight.

As worn as I knew myself to be, I had somewhat underestimated the extent of it; and past the growing patina of the mirror, it was a purple and yellow blot of ink pooling over the dip of my shoulder and the crest of my jaw. My eye had escaped bruising, and my hair concealed the worst of it, but I was a sight nonetheless, with my sand encrusted boots and dirt-stained trousers. I slipped free of my shirt, and the bruising extended over my left shoulder, seeking out the knot of scarred flesh there. I thanked the goddess that anyone I had passed on my way here had been occupied enough with their own affairs to pay me any heed.

With a fresh set of clothes and a wash, I settled up with the lodge-keeper. I should have disappeared down the road, retreating from those quaint cobbled streets to the lonely station where a train awaited to take me back to my life; the one I had laboriously built separate from all that was Vestra. There was no need to take a single risk more with him. But I went deeper into town instead, my legs a will of their own, passenger to the whims of something greater than myself.

I came to that _patisserie_ again – the Carassius, I observed – and the clerk that I had spoken with before was leant against the stone, smoking heavily from a thin cigar.

“Leaving already?” she asked amiably.

I glanced at my duffel instinctively.

“I think I am.”

“You find your beast?”

“Hmm, yes.”

Her eyes widened a fraction.

“He do that to ye?” nodding her chin to my bruised face.

“Oh,” I rearranged my hair to better obscure the marks, “He did.”

“You alright?” she narrowed her eyes. “Where did you say you found this beast?”

“In the forest, as you told me. I was being so careless. I went to the coast, I thought I saw something, and had a small tumble. It is really not as serious as it appears,” I stuttered, hopefully believable enough.

“Are you sure it wasn’t something else?”

“Well, I suppose it was any large animal, a bear or wolf. In my home town as well, wolves could become quite troublesome.”

“If you say so.” She took a long pull from the cigar at her lips. “Just wait there a moment,” and she tucked into the shade of the open door. She reëmerged shortly with a brown paper bag, and unceremoniously thrust it into my arms. I was about to object, but she preëmpted me. “Take them. They'll just go to waste anyway, too late in the day. ‘Fraid I can’t take no for an answer.”

“Than I will gracefully accept,” I said with a genial smile. “Thank you.”

“And if the beast thinks of troublin’ you again, I’ll be here.”

“I am sure that it will not. Have yourself a lovely afternoon.”

“And yourself, lad.”

I took stock of the paper bag as I wandered about the main street: three buns with an egg glaze, and two tarts - one custard, one blackberry. I slipped off a glove and bit into the custard. The pastry was flaking and golden, the filling smooth as silk, not over-sweet. I was already contemplating eating the other it was so delicious, even as I licked the crumbs from my thumb, but I was drawn into a shop by a journal in the display that had caught my eye. I slipped my fingers over the polished brass handle of the entrance, and the faint scent of formaldehyde and paper wafted out.

A bell chimed above my head as I entered, but it was almost muffled, a cocoon of air was surrounding the room. The walls were a series of mahogany shelves, with a rolling ladder along the widest. I went across the worn floors, stepping through the tiles of gilt sunlight slanting down from the tall windows, to examine the journal I sought. It was a pink-tinted robust stock of paper, bound in burgundy ermine, three quarters thick in all, the spine supple and secure. I brought it to the counter and struck the bell sitting there, a figure emerging from some back room at the shrill sound.

He was a cultivated man of middle years, his beard closely trimmed, and with a lush head of light blond-brown hair. His eyes were stern but not hard, an unexpectedly deep and velvet voice. He carried himself with a dignified air, an elegant slate suit to match.

“Good after-noon, sir. My apologies for the wait.” He slipped behind the counter, taking the journal from me. “A very fine choice. For yourself?”

“A gift.”

“Would you like it wrapped?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He ducked behind the counter and found a roll of aubergine floral paper, another a sedate grey pinstripe. After a moment’s consideration I gestured to the floral, and he began to wrap my purchase. I gazed absently over his shoulder to a row of feather quills displayed.

“I would not wish to overstep,” said the clerk, “but you seem troubled. A bit lost.”

“Oh,” I chirped sheepishly, “it was so apparent?”

“Not so, but it was a distant vision that reflected in your eyes. You are from away, I take it?”

“Enbarr, yes.”

“And what brings you here? Not the sightseeing – the prospects are far better further south along the coast, Orest or Tuqay. Visiting someone?”

“It did not begin as such.”

“The origin of your upheaval.”

“I, I do not mean to inconvenience you with my troubles.”

“I was the first to ask.”

“Indeed you were.” I deliberated a moment over how much I could admit to this stranger, as collected and amiable as he was. “I… have met again with an old friend after an extended period of time. We had parted on less than favourable terms. He seems repentant, but I do not think that I could ever forgive him. It all feels quite unreal. I never expected to see him again, and now we meet as if… Well, it is a touch overwhelming, anyhow.”

“Do you wish to forgive him?”

I averted my gaze to the shelf of quills again, obsolescent and beautiful, an answer languishing on my tongue.

“To forgive him,” I admitted, “would surely be to invite the same mistakes as I had made before.”

“Do you have so little confidence in yourself that, even aware as you are, you would repeat those errors of the past?”

“If only it were a matter of confidence."

“As a stranger in this affair,” the clerk continued, “I do not have the full extent of the circumstances, but finding an answer for this question may be a good start to coming to a solution between you and your friend. Whichever you choose, know that it does not necessitate the end. As long as there is time, there is opportunity for things to change. But I will not aggravate you any further,” and he passed the wrapped journal to me with a soft smile.

“My thanks.”

With the journal tucked away in my duffel, paper bag cradled in my arm, I took the dirt road back to the coast. And as I came upon the little cottage, salt stained wooden panelling, the faded thatch roof, hints of crimson and aubergine on the horizon, I was overcome with a certain feeling that I had forgotten. A time when worries were very far away, the peace that such a thing brought. And then a sound – the shuffle and clink of ceramic dishes – I could see Vestra, his raven shock of hair passing by the opened window. He was standing before the counter, presumably chopping something over a cutting board. I slowed and finally stopped, some twenty yards from the cottage, and watched him. He turned and caught me, still there upon the road, and he smiled, I think, a crooked little smile like he did not really know how to, a melancholy smile that parted lovers make; and I imagined a place that could be made for us, where the last day we had spent together was not interrupted by a bullet, where I could hold his hand and profess my love, where each mark and blemish of his skin could be known to me, and the haunting lilt of his voice could still find me. I held on to this fantasy even as I opened the door and passed over the threshold, the smell of cooking permeating the warm cushion of inside air, a cooling pan on the range, the nape of Hubert’s neck calling to me like a syren, begging me to put my lips there.

“Vestra.” He turned to me as that of the hand of a large clock that winds reluctantly down to midnight, arms falling to his sides, lone eye searching for mine in the glow of the evening light. I resisted the urge to fiddle with a frayed end on the strap of my duffel as I stood on the threshold. “It would seem that I had neglected my topcoat when I left earlier to-day,” I looked down to the paper bag in my arm, “and I found myself the recipient of a number of rolls that would fair very poorly on a late train into the city.”

I set the bag on the counter and backed out again, one foot anchored in the dust outside. My topcoat was still by the divan, but I did not make to collect it.

“You won’t stay for supper?” Vestra asked.

“I should not.”

“Please,” he said, face a stone wall, but knuckles whitened on the back of the chair.

I stood there, silent, deliberating for what I knew to be far too long. How could I entertain the time of the man who had killed me? Who had killed himself, in a way. And yet, as I beheld that man before me, I could feel even more keenly than the ragged edges of betrayal, a quiet and insidious imperative to remain exactly as I was. To look at him and never look away.

“You may leave Sulevis and never return for the rest of my days and you would have the right of it,” said Vestra, “but I make this selfish request for the last hour of your time here nonetheless.”

“Oh, Vestra...” I shook my head and bit my lip, but in the end I set my duffel down upon the floor. I doffed my coat and hung it upon the rack, then went to the table and sat in the chair across from where he stood. What was I expecting? Relief, perhaps, the customary subtle twitch of the line of his lip. He sat down after some hesitation. I was distracted by the flourish of his hand before I could take in the whole of his face: a smile not unlike the one previous; small and shy, softening his brow, and settling into his bright eyes.

Happiness.

I must have held my breath overlong, for there was a thundering in my ears as I dropped my gaze to the table. A cornflower blue linen tablecloth and simple china set for two, an array of delicate candles flickering in between us. The plate was adorned with scrambled eggs and shredded cabbage, thin slices of meat arranged artfully over it, smelling of rosemary and thyme, faint wisps of steam curling off it.

“Sautéed pheasant and eggs,” I remarked.

“Freshly butchered to-day. The cabbage is from my own garden. And the candles,” he gestured with a timorous hand, “I made myself.”

I could not avoid that beseeching look, the tense agitation in his shoulders. Not anticipating my approval nor expecting it – asking for nothing but my presence, but still finding joy in it. I said nothing in response, but took up a fork, prodding cautiously at a slice of pheasant. I drew it to my mouth, and I could tell how keenly aware Vestra was of my progress even as he attempted to mask it. The meat was fragrant and cooked to perfection. The rest of my plate would be of the same quality. Vestra rarely did anything in half measures. The whole meal was passed in silence, the glow of candlelight blooming in a halo as the light outside swiftly fell to darkness.

Too late for trains. Always a little too late.

At last my plate was empty, hunger sated, sluggish for a variety of reasons and wishing to lay down my head.

“I think I must retire for to-night,” I muttered.

“Of course.”

Vestra took my empty plate from me, and I let him. I could not yet muster the strength to leave my chair. I only waited as I heard the clink of washing dishes behind me, the ball of silence between us growing larger and larger, until I felt so terribly small that I might be washed away myself. The sound of sloshing water stopped, and it was just the crackle of the fireplace now. I could sense that tightening in the air that preceded difficult words, his presence hovering, unsure, over my shoulder, and I sprung up from my chair to evade them. I made for the divan, folding out the blanket I had left there the previous night.

“It is colder down here,” Vestra explained. “The east wind was blowing swiftly all day, and a parhelion showed itself while you were in town. I suspect it will be colder. The bay window drafts terribly this time of year.”

“Is that an invitation,” I asked, accusatory.

“It is a weakness,” Vestra murmured, boring a hole into my breast with the vulnerability of his gaze. He walked to the base of the stairs and stopped, bowing his head upon his chest.

“Good-night, Ferdinand,” he said, and was gone.

I lay there upon the divan, face upturned, straining my ears for the sound of Vestra’s footsteps, imagining that I could see him through the barrier of ancient panelling and my own fearful reservations. He would stand before the basin, pouring a waterfall of clear water into it before pulling the soil from beneath his fingernails like a ritual, careful to avoid those omnipresent bits of plaster, a sticky sweet bit of honey still clinging to the inside of his wrist. He would be meticulous, as with all things, slender glistening fingers in a pool of shining water. He would move to his bed, shed his clothes, folding them neatly, ready again for to-morrow or to be washed; and he would slip into his nightgown and under warm bedclothes, and I might be there. To remind him of what it was not to be alone. And we would close our eyes and wait for any infinite fairy-tale to-morrows.

I turned onto my side, and it was cold.

The light was sparse outside when I awoke the third morning. Quickly I gathered myself, donning my coat, meaning to slip out unnoticed. The creak of the floorboards betrayed my passing, but there emerged no motion from the second floor. I collected my jacket and duffel. I went out into the chill air and grey light, and I closed the door behind me. I walked the dirt footpath along the cliffs for the last time, tracing the jagged edge of the waterline with my eye. Down the miles of coast, to the wall of maple and pine, I searched for the grave of the beast on the beach, the proof of it; but there was no beach, only white water now, churning. I took one last breath of the crisp sea air. I released it. There were no more conveniently forgotten things, no more excuses to perpetrate, no more reason to return to that house. I would walk along the edge of the forest, the quickest route back to town, and riding the empty train into the city, I would finally awake. This dream, if none else, I would remember.

But then there was a figure advancing across the fields, willowy and tall, a black blade among the verdant grass. If I were to see him at this distance in a crowd of people, might I have ever recognised him? Not now, but in the past: when he had felt like an extension of myself, a mirror half. I began to be able to discern the shape of his limbs, his face the pale head of a pin. He was distant enough that I could leave, right now, leave him with but the hollow vision of my retreating back. I waited. The bright spot of white of his shirt-collar formed from the shadow of his shoulders, then specks of cream, the buttons down his front, and I waited. I glimpsed the highlights of his supple hair as it shifted in the breeze, the discolouration of his trousers at the knee. Vestra was industrious, was no stranger to toil, but I could never imagine that he would extend himself to the physical. I could see the sharp contour of his cheekbones now, the bruised crescents under his yellow-green eyes. His hands were bare, fingers tipped with pink. He stopped a yard away from me, a cut on the outside of his thumb, a frayed thread in the cuff of his sleeve, and still I waited. The last temptation.

“You never did ask why,” he said at last. Why he had brought me to that room at Carnation Road, why he had spoken with the thief as though they knew each other, why he had shot me. What reason he could possibly have to take my mother’s sapphire, and where it was now. Why he had pretended to be dead. A million other whats and whys that constituted the year I knew him. “How could you ever go without knowing?” and his voice took a sharp turn, as though realising that if kindness could not keep me, then anger might. “Do you not ache for it? You never could leave well enough alone. Not for long.”

“I wonder if I will hate you more or less after knowing. Whether it will not just dredge up those awful memories for nothing. You must hate me too, for living past my usefulness, for denying the death you delivered me.”

I rearranged my grip on the handle of my duffel. Vestra shook his head and sighed through his nose.

“I could never measure you, Ferdinand, in dimensions of usefulness. You were a fact of my existence. Your spirit could not be quelled, not by my hand.”

“Ah, what poetry you sing, Vestra! It is often cruel.” I turned away from him. “But there was no place for me here that I wished to understand,” and I only had to speak it with as much force as necessary to convince him, if not enough for myself.

Suddenly the scant colour dropped from Vestra’s face, and he swayed, unformed words fading into the wind. I watched him in a faint, all possessions in my hands forgotten – now they were only for him. He fell into me, and I grabbed his upper arms as he slid down my chest. He was feather-light in my embrace, pulse fluttering like the wings of a moth.

“Vestra!” I cried as I hauled him to his feet. “What is the matter?”

“Fine. I’m….”

I felt that I should have pushed him away, but instead I held him closer. He made little gasping breaths over my shoulder, and his cheek was ice cold against mine.

“What have you done to yourself,” I whispered.

“That which devotion demands," he laughed, and it was a dry and bitter thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me writing the dream sequence: how can I make this as horny as possible while still maintaining plausible horny deniability?
> 
> It's interesting going over the scenes that I had written near the beginning of this ordeal; much of it had to be scrapped or rearranged because they just didn't fit the emotional context that I had established after doing the actual writing, instead of just thinking about how it might play out. Perhaps, as a result, I wasn't really feeling this chapter, but I suppose that's just every chapter.


	7. The Vampire of Sulevis Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the impromptu hiatus, this chapter took forever to write (finally get to the part where I have to explain why things happen? Fuck that), but I also had to chase my beta around for a month to read the thing, since it was A Very Important Chapter, to no avail. So I guess we're going in blind. I read it through a couple extra times, maybe it makes sense.
> 
> You will find the credits to the poem in this chapter in the end notes.

I fairly carried Vestra over the fields his legs would not take him. The door to the cottage swung open at my fumbling touch, the divan inviting me to set Vestra there. He did not object to the tumbler of brandy I poured out from the spirit case, nor the fire I endeavoured to bring to life in the grate.

“How long has this persisted?” I snapped, kneeling before the hearth. “Have you been purposely hiding this from me? Or perhaps it is a scheme to placate me,” and it was with a violent strike of a match over the pile of tinder that I realised it was not merely concern that coloured my voice, “Because you think that in making yourself vulnerable, I will do the same?”

“If you suspect me enough to ask, it must be true. It is not beyond me.”

“If there was ever a time to dispute me, it would be this.” I searched over my shoulder to throw a piercing glare over to him. He had both hands cupped round the glass, nearly slumped forward over it.

“It is an affliction that includes sporadic but sustained periods of sickness, completely predictable. The end will come quickly enough.”

“What is the cause?” I demanded, resuming my efforts at the fledgling fire.

“It concerns itself with the time that has passed since we last parted.”

“And what is that?”

“I did not leave you... to take up a quaint little cottage by the sea. I had been travelling,” he sighed with short breath. “It was not safe for me to linger in any one place.”

“Not safe?”

“There was someone following after me, someone you have met before. I believe I introduced you to her.”

I did not have to think on it for long: Vestra had had so few friends.

“The duchess? Why?”

“There was an ideal she held, one for which she was willing to risk her life. I had to deprive her of it, to save her from herself. The greatest betrayal.”

“How so?”

“We have spoken of the Heroes before, have we not? Not in any detail, it was of no interest to me: children’s stories, fantasy and magic, humans that would live for hundreds of years. Forever, perhaps. Though empires may rise and fall, they would return again to the fields of war, untouched by time.”

“ _May there ever be Heroes to guide Fodlan in times of woe, to take up our banners ‘gainst the foe_ ,” I recited, “But they only represented an ideal, the spirit of valour. They were not,” I shook my head, “singular people."

“What is an ideal? Something of an ultimate attraction,” Vestra said nearly to himself. “But yes, this interpretation is really the only one of any merit. A provocative concept nonetheless, to live forever. How to capture another year, another month, another day? All manner of methods: concoctions of eternal youth formed from the waters of a natural spring, the nectar of a sacred fruit, a blessing from the goddess, a deal with a demon.”

“Have you made a deal with a demon,” I asked, half in jest, half in truth. I retreated from the fire, satisfied in the growing flames.

“No,” he smiled. “I am the demon. And I took from the duchess, a weapon of sorts, so that I could destroy it, for I could not accept that she was willing to destroy herself by it. I could never let harm befall her. She was too crucial to this world. She would find another way, with or without the crests, with or without me. I could not admit that it was not without some resentment, I suppose, some insidious neglect of which I felt subject. I had been,” he panted, “reaching for something. Something like… reciprocation. I thought that it would be all right, to go on like that forever, until we had gone from the world. There was nothing greater than her in my regard, but any great stronghold has a weakness, a creeping rat, a creeping thing like wrath; and perhaps it was the innate instinct of man to defy a god that moved me, but I wanted something back for all I had given.” That same sardonic smile graced his dry lips. “Look at me. What sickness does to a man. He rambles on and on.”

“And yet he says hardly anything at all.”

“I will. I will tell you. I.. I am,” he danced around the words, “not afraid, but merely mourning, mourning for something that is yet to come. I will tell you everything to-morrow.”

“To-night.”

“To-night,” he swallowed. “It will be a long night.” He rocked himself to his feet, one white hand grasping at the arm of the divan, and went to the kitchen, placing the tumbler by the basin. “I must tend the hives, if you will excuse me.”

“You should be resting,” I asserted.

“And yet it must be done,” he said with a low wave of his hand, only half looking at me. “You may prepare lunch if you must do something. I had a simple stew in mind. Throw the scraps into a pot. That sort...,” he trailed off. He went to the entrance to tenderly shrug on his bee suit and overcoat. “I may take some time. Do not hesitate to call for me.”

I let him go.

I stood at my place by the divan, looking out through the window for Vestra, and eventually he came out, carrying a tin canister in his right hand. He circled the myriad hives, examining each carefully before stopping to hunch over the one furthest from the cottage. I left him to his work, to make good on mine. There was a collection of vegetables on the counter in the corner: a few purple potatoes, a squash half cut away, turnips; they all went into a bubbling pot with the remains of the pheasant. The slicing and rattle of drawers as I searched for silverware was monotonous, simple. The bread rolls were still sitting in their paper bag. The filling from the last tart had soaked through on one side, but they would do. I set the table. The pot stewed. My knee ached, and I went to the window again.

A cursory glance could not find Vestra amidst the verdant fields, the backdrop of cerulean sky. I called out once, to no answer. The second call was half a gasp, and the third had me out the door, anticipating the worst as I came upon Hubert splayed out on the grass. He was a black slice in a world of light and colour. I dropped to my knees by his side, and his eye opened.

“Would you forgive me,” Hubert muttered, “if I only wished to test you?”

“Test what? My patience?,” I grimaced, and he chuckled.

“The sun felt... good,” and he closed his eye again.

“You are the most abominable and incomprehensible man. What tactic now is this?” I curled my knees to my chest,” To keep me? Or to lose me?”

“My all-suffering.”

I did not know what to make of this: a term of endearment? Or an accusation. I went the rest of the way to the ground, there was no denying it. That burst of dread and vexation still thudded in my ears as I lay my head down, but it was true: the sun was warm on my upturned face, the grass comfortably cool. The echoes of the air were different here so close to the earth. Gravity was lessened, the world in my periphery shrinking down to the hands-breadth of green bursting forth from the dirt.

There was the shuffle of fabric to my right of Hubert shifting closer. At first he only lay there, propped on an elbow, body turned towards me. His eye was lit like gold in the pale crescent of his face, silky hair curling down around his jaw. He regarded me without affectation or pretense, without fear. I stared back just the same, unflinching, unrestrained. He ran a hand over the back of my own, the lightest caress of scarred fingertips. I let him. He advanced further, still nothing but that hand to tether him here, my breath to guide him; and he was close enough now that I could reach an arm round the back of his neck, could imagine pulling him in and kissing him for the second time. The thousandth time.

I rose up and pushed past Vestra, turning on my heel to offer a hand to him. He looked as though he should refuse, sequestered again from my scrutiny, but then he took it, and I hauled him upright. He held firmly onto my arm as I led us back inside and once again to that little round table. I served two bowls, and Vestra responded with gratitude. I recited a short prayer to myself, unhurried, expecting Vestra to pick ineffectually at his meal; but contrarily, he advanced with startling gusto, ripping a large chunk of a bread roll and soaking it in broth. He sighed in satisfaction around the hot mouthful, another first in the growing list of habits he seemed to have adopted. Or perhaps they were all one and the same: that he had loosened his hold on propriety in his time of solitude, no one left to please or pretend.

The subdued ring of silverware against ceramic was the only sound shared between us until we had finished eating. Vestra excused himself to his bedchambers to rest afterwards, and I cleaned away my efforts in the kitchen. The next few hours were spent in a meander about the grounds: inspecting the sparse garden and its waist-high cauliflower leaning against the cottage wall; the beehives, eight in all, sun-bleached and buzzing; inside again, and peeking into the compartment under the stair where candles and jars of preserves awaited in silence. I stoked the fire. I rifled through the small collection of books in a shelf next to the mantle. I listened for movement from above me, and none came. I grew impatient, a touch concerned. I looked up the stairwell into the gloom of the top floor, and putting my foot down on the first step felt something like stepping into the past, with all its contradicting gaiety and apprehension.

I crept to the top to find one small room: a basin and chair, a narrow wardrobe, a night table, and the bed upon which Hubert lay. As I neared, the ebony of his head came into view, a ruffled tuft laid out on the white pillow. He was a bit more pale, more vulnerable than ought to be, but his sleep was otherwise unhampered by his affliction. Not a restless turning and fevered brow, but deep, even breaths. I set a palm to his forehead, brushing the fringe from his face, and he did not stir, was no longer the ice-cold of the early morning. There was a book splayed open on the nightstand, a book of poetry, thin black lines trailing into a lea of white:

_The man had killed the thing he loved,_  
_And so he had to die._

_Some kill their love when they are young,_  
_And some when they are old;_  
_Some strangle with the hands of Lust,_  
_Some with the hands of Gold:_  
_The kindest use a knife, because_  
_The dead so soon grow cold._

_Some love too little, some too long,_  
_Some sell, and others buy;_  
_Some do the deed with many tears,_  
_And some without a sigh:_  
_For each man kills the thing he loves,_  
_Yet each man does not die._

_Yet each man kills the thing he loves_  
_By each let this be heard,_  
_Some do it with a bitter look,_  
_Some with a flattering word,_  
_The coward does it with a kiss,_  
_The brave man with a sword!_

_And now by shadowed grave_  
_In silence let him lie:_  
_No need to waste the foolish tear,_  
_Or heave the windy sigh:_

“ _For he who lives more lives than one, more deaths than one must die_ ,” said a thin voice. Hubert was turned towards me in the bed, eyes not yet open.

“Is this your typical fare,” I inquired.

“I have little else left to me but flights of fancy,” sighed Hubert. “Little left to do but wait. Does a man not cherish his last possession? No matter its nature.”

“But wait for what?”

“In all my life, how many times had I envisioned my ambitions, to the moment of my death, and no further? I was never the man to believe in a place beyond this one, but then I came to know you, and it pained me to think of any place where you did not exist. Still you make me believe that there is a place where we could be,” he coughed. “Perhaps we might meet again, in another life.”

“You said before that this illness would pass, and now you speak the words of a dead man,” I stressed. “You have spoken them to me before, but you did not die. Forgive me if I do not believe you.”

“It would be absurd to think that you should believe. And yet the absurdities shall only increase... as the day goes on to night.”

“If we are to indulge in the absurd, I believe that I have you beaten.” I took a step away from the bed, the wall behind me close enough to lean upon, but I did not.

“I wonder now what day it was. Wednesday perhaps, of a bright after-noon sun and wispy clouds, the most unassuming of days. I had just quit my office, afforded the rare opportunity to return home early, when a figure across the street caught my attention. She was an elegant woman, a plush black cloak adorning her cream frock, and a large brimmed hat the same colour that nearly obscured her face completely. Golden tresses flowed freely out behind her as she went. I stood transfixed on the side of the street as she rounded the corner, but as soon as she was out of sight I was dashing through the crowd, taking little heed of the carriages that thundered past, my eyes,” I said, taking a small breath to expel it on the next word, “completely rooted upon the place where she had disappeared. I followed her down several busy streets, though becoming less and less so as we went. She did not appear to take my notice until I came nearly upon her, and sensing my presence finally, she whipped around with such vigour and purpose that I thought it must have been a case of mistaken identity; but then I saw her face, the face that so dominated my young life, and on it there perched the keenest expression of surprise before being washed away by utter resignation.

‘ ”I knew my mistakes would catch up to me one day,” she said. “Would you like to join me for tea?” ’

Hubert’s face was unchanging.

“My mother,” I explained ruefully, searching his eyes for something. “We spoke at length. About her disappearance, her reasons for it. That there was a force to be reckoned with operating in the city and it had turned its eye on her. She was reticent to begin with, but when I broached the subject of my father, she would tell me no more, convinced that it would break my heart. She invited me to go with her, to mend the years that we had lost from each other. But how could I abandon the life I had made, and what life was it anyhow to always be looking behind for some knife in the dark? I had had only a taste of it, and I had not come away unscathed. She was gone on a ship to Dagda the next morning, but she did tell me a story before she left. Of a man she met at the ministry.” I leaned forward aggressively. “A tall black-haired man, skin pale, and yellow-green eyes like a snake. She told me never to trust this man, lest I welcome misfortune.”

“Hmm, she remembered me,” Hubert hummed, eyes drooping in fatigue.

“How do you know her?” I cried, partly in astonishment at his unabashed admission. “Tell me! You knew she was alive all these years, and you kept it from me!”

“Truly I did not know she lived. We met only the once, that occasion she recounted, a state dinner, the year before she had vanished. I know not the course of her distrust for me, but she was right. As you were when you questioned me in the Von Ochs case. But even then you had called on your suspicion too late, for it was that very first case, your own... that you would have done so well to be rid of me.”

“What do you mean.”

“But we have jumped ahead to the dark of night,” he sighed. “I have asked for this last day of freedom, by the end of which you will pass your judgement. Until then, no more wickedness shall pass these lips.”

“You know nothing but wicked,” I reproached but relented. I had already agreed to his terms, I would abide by them. It was not a matter of _if_ any longer, but _when_. A hand’s worth of hours. I turned away from Vestra to the stair, “Have you need of anything.”

“I do, but would you be willing to give it?”

I should not answer.

“What is it,” I asked.

“Stay.”

“Were you always so impertinent?”

“No,” he said.

“How long would I stay?”

“As long as you pleased.”

I turned round and walked back over to the bedside.

“That would not do you very well if I only stayed as long as this sentence.”

“Yet... you remain.”

He shuffled to the far edge of the bed, inviting me, in no subtle way, to join him there. I perched atop the bedclothes with reluctance, but it was enough to satisfy, for he closed his eyes and turned upon his side, the discretion of an exposed back. I sat there in the absence between us for a while. There was a small window set in the wall to my right. It should overlook Sulevis, I thought, but the short curtains were drawn close; it was only slivers of light that broke inside. I whispered Hubert’s name, and he did not answer. A discomfort grew in my legs overhanging the bed, in the knee crooked before me. I slipped out of my boots, settling fully back, reclined on the headboard and legs extended.

“I suppose you have fallen asleep already,” I murmured into the room. I paused again, waiting for Hubert to reveal that he was yet awake, but all was quiet. “I have not told you of what happened in the aftermath of your departure. You did not ask. I do not know that I would have told you if you had. It was rather like a dream, returning home after those formidable months in hospital.” I found myself sinking lower, shoulder brushing against Hubert in the scant distance that separated us. He did not stir. “There were the first few days of nothing, no telltale sound of footfalls coming down the stair. No telegrams or calls, no smell of coffee the next morning. The ensuing week of searching for any sign as I went about my day that would contradict the letter weighing down my pocket, or the dark memories that plagued private and public thoughts alike.” I was lying on my back now, “Stealing in to your room to make sure you were not hidden away there. The months of meals for one, of settling rent, of moving somewhere new, more affordable, fewer memories,” I sighed a shaking breath, “until you were just the shadow of someone I loved.”

I turned my head to Hubert after this solitary confession, and he was so close, smelling of wood smoke and fresh grass, and a particular musk that was all his own. I rolled to my side, and there was no space to afford between us any longer, a tessellation of prone bodies. I enclosed an arm around his form under the rough blankets, and he sighed a deep melancholy sigh.

We sat across from each other for the last time, the remains of supper between us on the table. Now was for all sordid mysteries to be revealed; what wretched delights, I wonder, had Hubert undertaken since our first meeting? He had captured me for another day, another night, but it was a pittance to pay for the secrets he had so fervently cultivated.

“Now there shall be no more running,” I threatened, “no more waiting.”

“Time at last to cast aside those obscuring shades, and expose that which must only slither in the dark,” Hubert conceded solemnly. He coughed roughly in preparation for the litany that was to no doubt follow. “As I said before, it was that first case we met that precipitated this lethal affair. You are aware of Lord Volkhard Arundel and Duchess Von Hresvelg, and your father, of course; there are other players in this game, but these shall suffice. It was Arundel that tasked me with resolving the case concerning Duke Von Aegir. He relayed to me that I would receive a letter from you, that it would call me to Drothin immediately after.”

“I had no knowledge of him at the time, why would he have known of my letter or any intent to call upon your services?”

“You believe yourself to be the progenitor of that particular thought to hire me, but you were told of my expertise, were you not? I was made known to you by an acquaintance, or perhaps as a name overheard in the club asserting to cure all your ails.”

“You claim to take responsibility for this?”

“No, I scarcely held a thought for you when Arundel approached me, but I am intimately aware of his methods,” he swallowed dryly. “He would never have the son of an aspiring prime minister walk unchecked about the city.”

“What is this Arundel to you that you do as he bids? That is informed to my private business?”

“He is uncle to Duchess Von Hresvelg by marriage. After the Von Hresvelg’s incident at sea, Arundel enjoyed greater influence over the house until the duchess was of age. He has yet to forget the power he once possessed – holds some little influence over the duchess still, and, by extension, myself.”

“Well I say that: do not be surprised if I remain skeptical,” I declared judiciously.

“You remarked upon my efficacy in solving the case at the time, but I am not some master of deduction,” he asserted. “I arrived at the Von Aegir residence and solved, within three days, a case that had been ongoing for weeks… because I was told of the murderer, the weapon, the scapegoat, and each officer bought to obstruct it. When I went to the constabulary to interview Bannister, the chief of police snidely remarked to me... how easy the case must be knowing the culprit, but he had no idea how close he was to the truth of it.”

“And Arundel told you everything that you needed to know, did he?”

“Duke Von Aegir was accomplices with Arundel. I realised that he had not made his relations known when you failed to recognise Arundel at the Noa Ball, but I knew he had a hand in it even as I questioned the maid Toller, and she recounted a man of his description that had visited the manor recently. While Arundel had not been witness to the murder, it was apparent that the information he gave me was as close to first hand as could be found outside of St. Peters herself. There were still some particulars that I needed to resolve by my own reasoning, however, for Arundel would never be so obliging. The rest of my efforts went to assuring that this manufactured solution was sound. This included disposal of the bodies, St. Peters’ and Duke Von Aegir’s. Cremation. An uncommon method.”

“Nearly… unheard of,” I echoed.

“And it was true that St. Peters had killed the duke,” Hubert pressed on, sparing no time for dawning realisations, “had done it by the beast, had gone the selfsame way. But Duke Von Aegir was her only victim. The other disappearances in Drothin were an other's; and yet so simple to impose upon her, and the origins of the beast, a fanciful coincidence. But your mother knew, didn’t she, who the culprit was. That which she knew should break your heart.”

“I do not understand,” I swallowed.

“Well, I am sure it is easier to pretend... but it is the truth that your father was the true perpetrator. The remains of a structure in the woods were his, burnt down not in a storm, but to obscure what remained inside – Arundel’s doing, I surmised. Those solitary nightly forays to that selfsame place; for the deeds he perpetrated there were far too foul to see the light of day. I, at the time, admitted to not knowing the reason why St. Peters had done what she had, but it was not true. The duke had taken her sister’s life, and in return she had taken his. And perhaps it was not the duke to lure each person from their homes – a hired hand courtesy of Arundel or a ministry connexion – but he was the one to end them.”

“Why?” I cried.

“For his research. I only learned of his experiments after he had died: with the violent death of a cabinet member, it was impossible for Arundel to keep it all a secret. Then was the first time I had heard of the crests spoken of in any serious way. That had been his and Duke Von Aegir’s intent: to revive those ancient rituals of scholars and philosophers past, in the pursuit of eternal life.”

With every word he spoke, my unease grew, a resentment and indignation.

“After your father’s fatal encounter, I sought to understand the crests and beasts for myself. I found an old sailor knowledgeable in their tales, of one who had studied them for many years, and a book of their findings. What fortune that it was rumoured to be within the very city, in the possession of one... Tomas Rudel Solon. How perfectly everything had fallen into place when I discovered that it was he who had blackmailed Von Ochs. Never a more convenient excuse could have graced my doorstep. It is difficult to say to whether Solon knew the significance of it, but it hardly matters now. An unassuming little journal, jade-coloured and leather-bound, waiting in the depths of the blackmailer’s writing desk. It would be mine, and the duchess no wiser.

“This one point was imperative: that Duchess Von Hresvelg was unaware of my movements concerning crests; for she, in that fated interrogation of Arundel, had concluded that the power of the crests should be the very mechanism to exact her change in the world. With the power and wisdom said to be afforded by one, she could regain her family’s prestige, could exact her righteous will upon the corruption rampant in the higher orders – the very people like your father that cared more for money and power than integrity or fairness. As well, there were whispers of a coming war with Dagda that might be mitigated by her strength, perhaps averted altogether. She would do these things, she vowed, despite the potential dangers, even at the cost of her life. For such a potent and uncharted thing as a crest, there is a price to be payed.”

I stood up from my seat and pressed upon the kitchen counter, my back turned to Hubert.

“The journal had it written that a crest is the house of a soul,” he went on, “the soul of one who has been killed but has not died; that death could be circumnavigated as long as the body and soul remained in the same plane of existence. The specific methods have been lost to time, but in this way the immortal Heroes were crafted throughout the ages, unwillingly or not.”

“You cannot truly believe this?” I stared in horror.

“Utter absurdity. But I could not deny the proof before me: the beasts.”

“You would not tell me before, about the nature of the beast. So this is connected as well!”

“The crests are the axis upon which all things turn. For these souls contained within – the animating force of a creature, and thus possessing great potential – could be applied to another – with prolonged exposure resulting in a degradation of the subject at a fantastic rate, from the inside out, often resulting in those very beasts that have caused you so much disquiet. This was the fate of St. Peters’ sister, of the others lost from Drothin. In better circumstances and with more time, I might have gleaned some better use from crests, but there is nothing to be gained now from speculation.”

“Even if I could put away all sensibility to believe you, what does any of it have to do with me now? Surely if you knew all this, you knew that I was completely in the dark about my father’s grotesque machinations?”

“Your father had a crest – from where he got it, I do not know – with which he was performing his experiments. Through Arundel, I found that your mother had taken it from him. Duke Von Aegir had spent great sums to recover the crest from her, and failing that, to find another. I suspected it was a great factor to his growing debts. But imagine my surprise when, on the night of the Noa Ball, and you wore that pendant, that not only did you know of the crest, you had the very thing. Finally I had found that which I had been tasked to retrieve.”

“My mother's necklace? Then why were you so incensed to see it? Would you not have wanted Arundel to know?”

“Can you make no fool’s guess? No notion at all? Have I not said it enough times? In every way I could imagine,” Hubert coughed. “I cared far too much for you. To let Arundel see you with the crest was to admit that there was something to be gleaned from you. Any degree of culpability put you in danger of him, of others. The duchess, too. I thought I had convinced her that you were of no remark, but that night on Staraya Road was the stark destruction of that misguided thought. The woman we met there: she was the one who had stolen into Hevring’s home that early morning, who had taken his ring – another crest. I had promised Duchess Von Hresvelg that I would have your own easily accessible, to be taken from our rooms while we were out. In this way no suspicion would fall on me for its disappearance, the duchess would have another crest, and I could continue to observe you on her behalf.”

“That night,” I wedged my eyes shut in concentration and disbelief, “you insisted that I wore it…”

“A selfish, stupid, little part of me; one that could not deny you anything, another that feared time was growing too short to steal away the rest of the crests now in her possession, and reluctant to give her one more. I indulged on her leniency for too long, and found it completely expended. Her suspicions of my intent had exceeded the critical point... I had become a liability in quick order, an enemy. I cannot fault her for it, though I hoped one day we might reconcile, that she could see sacrificing herself was not necessary to her ambitions. But I had not anticipated that you would be thrust back into the line of fire only thanks to my neglect. I shot the thief Ladislava, and enacted my plan that very night, taking the crests and escaping the city. I knew I could not have taken you, and yet, if you remained, you would find no safety nor peace at the duchess’ hand. So I drew my gun on you next, to cut all ties between us in the only fashion enough to satisfy her: if I was willing to kill you, then Duchess Von Hresvelg could be assured that you had no value to me any longer.”

“What a farce is this!” I barked indignantly. “ _You shot me to save me_?” I felt I might have laughed if I were not so furious. “I daresay worse than the letter! Yes, that cursed letter! Like you had shot me again. Was it not enough to merely vanish?”

“I needed you to know that I was dead, that you would not be tempted to look for me. I had no intention to ever see you again – I may as well have died. As my last good-bye... I hoped that it could give you some small comfort.”

“As much comfort as an empty grave, as much comfort as my mother saw fit to afford me. Everything since I met you has revealed itself to be a great convolution of lies,” I choked, holding on still to composure, as deserved of outrage as I was. “And yet I see that you are not done. What did you achieve, I wonder, after initiating your grand scheme?”

“I left the empire for Morfis,” he whispered in fatigue before, with a laboured intake of breath, he continued, determined to see this story through. “There I began my attempts to destroy a crest. I nearly lost my life to the very first, for my method was flawed, and rather than being rendered impotent as a candle is snuffed, it became volatile in an instant. The crest was destroyed, but I was made vulnerable for several days, much as you see me now.

“In this solitary way I travelled, following rumours of crests and disposing of them as I was able, all the while evading Duchess Von Hresvelg and her inferiors. The latest had me returned to Fôdlan, to Rusalka, as you learned for yourself. I had been living here for only a short time before the beast appeared. I knew it to be no coincidence – her organisation had become quite adept at training the creatures to their purposes, tracking defectors and the like.”

“Those people whose souls reside in the crests, what happens to them?”

“Do you hope for me to say that they continued to carry out their peaceful lives? Or rather that they had become monsters in their own right after centuries of existence, evil... damaged creatures deserving of death? Some were. Others were people just as I see you, just as one may walk the city streets and observe all pedestrian pursuits. But they were corpses already; once the soul was gone, the consciousness would dissipate. Surely as all the rest of us, they returned to dust.”

“An admission to murder as any,” I declared coldly, a roiling ocean beneath translucent ice.

“I saw it as ghosts in want of an exorcism.” Hubert leaned heavily upon the table’s edge as though resisting the urge to lay his head down. “If you were hoping I would claim innocence, I must disappoint you.”

“I have always wanted to believe in the best of you.”

“I am not a man made for belief. Where is your evidence, what proofs? If you should find them lacking, it is by no fault of your own.”

“What do you hope to prove by insisting on your own villainy?”

“I am merely recapitulating facts. I had implied as much the first time we met. You should have no illusion about the kind of man I am.”

“What does it matter now?”

Hubert paused a while, a gathering of clouds before a storm.

“One crest I destroyed was a sword, originally of Arundel’s possession. The crests are not all convenient little trinkets: a warrior may prefer a weapon; sometimes it was with desperation that a crest was created, using any object at hand that might reasonably stand a test of time. You might imagine how difficult some of these would be to identify beyond the singular carving that is their namesake. It was always more favourable to me to dispose of a larger crest, a one more conspicuous or laborious with which to travel, that I should keep yours as long as I had. Then I found myself here, as close to you as I had been in so long; and I could no longer deny that I had saved it purposefully. Eventually the beast appeared, and I wished for you to see it too, that you might seek it out. I should have ended this months ago – the only reason I have waited was because of my selfish desire to see you one last time.”

“So sentimental. How you must suffer to say such things,” I said, cold and savage. “But I have pretended well enough, as though we were still in our home on Orchard Street, like you did not shoot me and run off to play at being dead. Had you hoped that in the last day things had changed? My presence is not my forgiveness.”

“I could never ask for it so easily, but hoped that you would give me the opportunity to earn it.

“It has been _five years_ , Hubert!” I cried, cutting a hand through the air. “You could not know how things are different!”

“I knew the instant I saw you, could smell it in your hair as I carried you from the beast. But I found I could not be without you, my darling.”

“ _You cannot just say those things to me!_ I cannot continue on like this, I could not stay here! In this place you have made for yourself!” Hubert flinched at my outburst, nearly cowering there in his seat. “I waited for you. Hours and days and weeks of wondering if you would return! Wondering if I would die in that empty room! I saw you in every condoling face, every pitying person who knew you or did not. I told scarcely a soul the truth of what you had done – Miss Arnault was the only one who really knew. What possessed me to lie for you as you had already done so well for yourself? Perhaps it was easier that way. But I moved on. _How could I have known to leave room in my life for a dead man_?” I moaned in anguish.

“I did not expect you to. I merely… hoped.”

“Hoped that time could stand still for you and us?” I needed to escape. “This obsession of crests has addled your mind.”

“Ferdinand --”

“No, I shall not hear any more from you!”

Hubert made to stand, but I evaded the hand reaching for my elbow. The night had come in full, my anger withering at the prospect of the cold darkness to be had should I storm out. The only way left was up, and so I pushed past Hubert to the stair. There were no sounds of pursuit – only my name again, three syllables gasped in desperation. I paced the room in unmitigated agitation, but found that it was little consolation. There was really no comfort to be had in this house, as much as I had wished for it. The enchantment had been broken this very night. I had gotten all that I had asked for, and none of it what I had wanted. I collapsed to the bed, folding my knees to my chest. Some little guilt upbraided me for taking a bed from a sick man, but it was muddied in everything else, in these curses and revelations howling in my head. I wished only to have sleep wash them all away.

If only for a little while.

I awoke in the night to some creature sound, the rustle of the wind. I lay in darkness, memories of the last evening slow as honey to rise to consciousness. I remarked upon movement from below. A scuffle of shoes, innocent enough, but then a moan of discomfort. Presently there was a stifled grunt, the disturbance from downstairs becoming more worrying. I crept silently to the stair, informed by some baser instinct that I would only come to understand too late. The palm of my hand was smooth over the banister as I descended, a frail light barely illuminating the space beyond it. There was the murmur of a baritone voice, after which I heard Hubert cry out.

I was at the landing in an instant to see him slumped over, arms wrenched painfully and held up from behind by a shorter man. There was another before him, far in excess of six feet, long platinum hair tied away at the back of his head. Upon hearing me enter, this one turned, stepping away from Hubert enough that I could see now the stain of blood splashed upon his lip, ebony hair limp and overhanging. At that very moment, Hubert, with heroic effort, grappled the man behind him over his hip; and before he should even come to land with a heavy thud upon the floor, Hubert pulled a small blade from beneath his belt, with frightening precision, unceremoniously slitting the man’s pale throat. The momentum from this throw overbalanced Hubert and brought him down to one knee, the man below him clutching ineffectually at the crimson tide seeping from his skin. With a bubbling gasp he feebly scrambled away to writhe at the foot of the divan.

Before Hubert should recover, the blond man, attention forcefully ripped away from me, turned on Hubert again, landing a savage kick to his jaw. I took my first step into the fray only as Hubert was thrown backwards with the force of the hit, blade flying free from his bloodied hand. The man lunged after Hubert, dazed and sprawled upon the floor as he was, and grabbed his wrist in one hand, pulling Hubert bodily to his feet to shove him against the far wall. I dashed forwards, throwing myself upon the fallen knife, even as the man with his free hand pulled a gun from beneath his cloak and shot Hubert.

Once, and with a finality.

I leapt forwards with such desperation as though I were the one dying, plunging the blade into the man’s back. Even with such a grievous wound, he turned on me with a roar, and quickly I felt the sting of his revolver against my face as I stabbed again – his shoulder this time. The gun fell from his bloodied hand, arm now limp at his side, but still he came at me, death in his eyes, as he let loose a kick that stole all breath from my lungs. I fell to my knees, choking for air, and through the haze of pain, past the approaching shadow of my attacker, I could see Hubert slouched against the wall, unmoving, blood trickling from the hole in his gut, looking for all the world to be dead; and the sight of it summoned in me a frenzy of rage and sorrow, tears flooding my vision.

I renewed my attack with the persuasion of a cornered animal, the knife held so tightly in my hand I felt that it might break, and we both went our way to the floor. He suffered enough cuts to his forearms, the layers of clothing between the blade and his skin in tattered ribbons, but it did not slow him. He seemed to care little for the weapon I wielded so injudiciously, but kicked and grasped, aiming to have me pinned to the floor. With an elbow to his temple I battled my way on top, and he writhed with brutal strength, iron grip constricting round my throat. I slashed at him like the knife was my own claws, an inhuman sound conjured in the pit of my gut, until his grip could only loosen. Again and again, until his pale hands fell from me, as crimson washed over my hands. Once more as he hissed his last shallow breath. I stared in horror as a scarlet halo bloomed around his head, dread and disgust tumbling in my stomach. My exhausted pants grew more superficial, withering to panicked gasps. Still kneeled over his dead body, I clutched at my chest with both hands, and began to sob great wracking breaths. Past the haze of hysteria, I slowly became aware of the black-haired man near to my left, still failing to breathe around the large gash in his throat, body juttering feebly, but I felt nothing: no urgency in saving him, not the pain of my bruised body, not the cold rising into my bones from where my knees dug into the floor. Soon, the noise of the man’s laboured gasps would fade, and the only sound in the quiet room, my own hiccoughing murmurs.

I do not know how long I lingered there, as silent and still as though death had washed over me too, when I perceived rather than heard, the whisper of a sigh.

“Fer...nand.”

I opened my swollen eyes and lifted my head to the sound, disbelieving and hopeful at once. I moved upon my hands and knees, sliding over the prone body beneath me, the clatter of the knife left behind as I made that arduous journey towards Hubert. As I came upon him, I touched my fingers to the inside of his wrist, and let out a grim bark of a laugh at the feel of his pulse.

“Mm… sorry,” he exhaled.

“Not yet, you are not.”

I staggered to my feet, and clutching at the wall for balance, made my way about the cottage, rummaging through kitchen cabinets and drawers of various scientific tools in search of what I needed.

“Who were those men? They wanted the crests?” I wheezed through bruised oesophagus. I rounded on the room, and collapsed next to Hubert again with my armload of supplies. Without ado, I lay him down and sliced open the front of his shirt, inspecting the bullet hole. “Why did you not call for me? Did you think that they could come and go, and I would be none the wiser? What would I --” I coughed forcefully around the words, voice tight with distress, “would I have found come morning? You, dead on the floor! Or perhaps your intent was for me to wake to an empty house again!”

“Later,” Hubert grunted in pain as I cleaned the wound.

“Yes, I imagine you will not afford me the courtesy of maintaining consciousness through this,” I laboured as I prepared to extract the offending piece of metal from his side, but it appeared to have completely passed through him. In its path it had miraculously avoided anything vital. Not a killing blow, then. Perhaps only one meant to incapacitate. I rolled him to his side, and he whimpered and balled his fists, writhing weakly in his own shallow pool of blood. Swiftly and carefully as I could, I dressed the wound. At length his eyes dropped closed and he quieted to the shallow pants of a fitful sleep. I shifted him to a clear spot on the floor, my entire body shaking from these exertions. It was all I could do to throw a blanket over Hubert and slot myself behind him, one hand cradling the pulse at his wrist. Two dead bodies waited on the other side of the room.

I awoke again in darkness. I went to lift my head, and my entire body protested at even this small movement. Hubert still lay cradled in my arms. He had begun to shiver in his sleep at some time. I attempted to rouse him, and failing that, picked him bodily from the floor, taking pains not to jostle the wound. He was distressingly light, but even so, in my weakened state the best I could manage was to set him carefully on the sitting room divan. I sunk to the floor and rest my head on the edge of the seat, gathering my tangled hair over the opposite shoulder. I was reassured in the flutter of Hubert’s breath, the sound of life unmistakably filtering to my ears. I focused my sight past the frayed threads of the divan to the kitchen where I knew the water jug to be. My ribs protested movement, but my raw throat and heavy tongue could not be denied. Tenderly I brought myself to standing and inched over to the jug, returning to Hubert with it and a small glass. I grasped his upper arm, squeezing lightly.

“Hubert,” I whispered, for I found I could do little else, “you must drink something, and we must get you to hospital.”

“No,” he said, nearly inaudibly.

“I cannot do this alone. Not as I am.”

“You must.”

“Why in heaven...”

“She will know. I will be… in far more danger without this house than within. You must go. A telegram. Listen well. I HAVE IT STOP VESTRA RESOLVED STOP B.E. Address: Mount Boulevard, Enbarr” he relayed, panting with effort by the end of it.

“What is this for?”

“She will be led to believe that the crests were recovered… which gives us time to flee to Enbarr.” He cracked an eye open, staring as though right in to my soul. “Please.”

I clenched a fist tightly, fingernails digging into the heel of my palm.

“If by some miracle I return to find you gone, I swear to the goddess you will find no peace in this life, or the next,” I coughed, and the ghost of a smile graced his lips. I set the glass half-full by his side, taking the jug to the kitchen basin. I rubbed the dried blood from my hands and face, the edges of my shirt now cold with wet. Eschewing my jacket (too weary to return upstairs to fetch it), I threw on Hubert’s overcoat, knowing that it would better obscure the crimson stains over my trousers. I wedged on a cap to shadow the purple discolouration no doubt blooming atop my cheeks and meeting with the yellow bruises over my jaw. I spared one last look inside to Hubert, to the tableau of brutality arranged there. I despised to leave him, but I could not take this opportunity to hesitate. I fastened the door and made down the thin dirt road.

The sun had begun its leisurely arc through the sky at the same time I had awoken, now comfortably above the pale blue horizon. I arrived in town, and as I feared, the telegraph office was yet to open, but a desperate entreaty to the passing clerk found me inside. I had my message sent – relaying an address I could hardly remember, the name of someone I had met only once in my life – no time for courtesies or banter, and escaped again to the morning chill. I passed several townspeople in the streets but none gave me much attention. I was shivering in fatigue and pain – much less the cold – when I returned to the cottage. One half-second of hesitation had my hand frozen on the knob, but when I pushed through it, the interior was as I had left it. I averted my eyes from the bodies.

Thankfully Hubert had channelled enough sense to finish the water I had left him, and was responsive when I called his name.

“You have done as I instructed?” Hubert mumbled.

“I have sent the telegraph, yes,” I reclined at the foot of the divan.

“The duchess should expect further communication… to verify that my body has been properly disposed of… and, and any other crests found….”

“The men were hers?”

“I cannot see them as any other’s.”

“What is to be done with them?”

“We are not returning,” he simply said.

“We cannot just….” but I let the thought go in a wave of dizziness, propping my head on the seat. Hubert ran a lock of my hair through his limp fingers.

“Conserve your strength.”

“Why to Enbarr?” I asked,

“...less inclined to look… in her own house.”

“Hmm.”

My ribs ached too much to continue upright. I sunk to the floor, a fleeting relief to my chest but throat still tight as though ghostly hands might attempt to complete what the living could not. I coughed, and a seizure of pain rippled up my spine.

“Wake me in an hour,” breathed Hubert.

I struggled to keep my eyes open, for I knew that sleep would find me too well. Already I was dreading a great number of things, not least of all the ferocious look of bloodlust in the eyes of the dead man. Would that death, too, find me in my dreams, to mingle with the other lives lost because of me? Hubert had only expressed a great indifference to such a grievous offense. What was in him that could leave him untouched? If it was the same that could harm me, I did not wish to see it again.

Far too quickly the hour passed, and I gently roused Hubert from his dead sleep. He instructed me to return to the telegraph office as I had before, and true to his word, there was a response. All that remained now was to convey Hubert to the train station, and return to the city. When I found him at the cottage once more, he had managed to struggle to his feet unaided, but ascending the stair had proved to much, and he had abandoned his determined quest on the third step. I said nothing, but plucked him from where he overhang the banister, insisting I place him near the door, at least.

“And I will need... the carpet-bag in the wardrobe,” he murmured into my ear. “The nightstand, too... a small velvet box.”

I left him hunched over the counter as I limped upwards. In the elegant wardrobe I found a well-used carpet-bag, filled with journals and books, a change of clothes, a thick black billfold tucked into a corner. The box in the nightstand I opened, as well, Hubert could not have expected me to do otherwise. Inside was a pretty saffron stone with a silver bezel and fine silver chain. I shut it again with a snap, and pocketed the cursed thing. Downstairs, I found Hubert as I left him.

“You have them?” he asked.

“I have them.” I took my own duffel in hand that had been patiently waiting by the foot of the stair since the last morning, then opened the door for Hubert. “This is everything?”

“This is just the beginning.”

I crossed those verdant fields again, this time with no intention to return, weighed down with two bags, a semiconcious invalid, and my own failing legs. We skirted round Sulevis proper and engaged the lone cab that made the trip to the train station. We arrived with little event, and Hubert immediately sank into the bench on the station platform. I passed inside to secure us tickets at the booth. I checked the clock over on the far wall: ten minutes remained to the only train. There was a woman reading by the grey light of the windows. She seemed wholly uninterested in me. I passed outside again, and there was Hubert still, a futile vigilance in the placement of his hands, his gazing eyes. Futile, for if anything were to occur, I scarcely think that he should do much beyond faint.

In silence we waited, I too brimming with anxieties to sit, he too exhausted to stand. I mapped the whorls and lines in the platform under my boots, a chill wind biting the tops of my cheeks, all encased in a brick of silent apprehension. An eternity passed. I looked over to the station clock. Five minutes left. Hubert began to shiver, the barest tremor of his shoulders, but sat resolutely, eyes vacant now, looking all around him, looking nowhere. The woman came out from inside the waiting hall, and I perceived a rumbling down from the tracks, away into the fog, the blurred white of a light. The shrill peal of a whistle blew as the train came screeching to a halt before us. Hubert pushed away from the bench, making in after the woman with myself to complete the line. Hubert found an empty carriage and I slid the door close to shut us in. As I sat, Hubert leaned in to lay his head upon my shoulder, folding a gloved hand over mine. I slipped the rough fabric from his hands, and they were swollen red underneath.

“You should lay down,” I muttered, rubbing warmth into his frozen fingers.

“...fear I would not get up again,” he replied in a single exhale of breath.

“I would carry you if I must.”

“Unnecessary spectacle... that my pride would ill receive.”

“There are worse things.”

He fell to silence as I watched the pale lights of the station slip away, on the horizon sitting the Morgaine and its range of sculpted mountains. A tenebrous blanket of clouds foretold rain to the southwest. I put my lips to the crown of Hubert's head, seeking to divine his current thoughts, his future intentions. I felt that he was counting down to something: the end of his quest, or the beginning of his recovery from it. Something else beyond even these. Perhaps it did not matter. In the coveted few moments of peace, I could see properly, feel some comfort in understanding to where all this was leading.

“How is Lady?” Hubert inquired in a somnolent voice.

“She is gone.” I paused. “Some time after your departure… I thought she might be looking for you.” He shifted uncomfortably, but I saved him a graceless recovery by posing a question of my own. “Who were those men, precisely? They were not the average bludgeonman, were they. There was a singular malevolence about them.”

“Byleth Eisner and Jeritza von Hrym: the former a mercenary well known… for his mercilessness and little else, surely having been formed out of some black pit below the earth; the latter... after killing his father and several others, was sentenced to death by hanging, but fled to deeper waters before he could be apprehended. They are better known as the, the Ashen Demon and Death Knight. Melodramatic but not wholly,” he grunted, “wholly undeserved. Only loyal insofar as a debt is owed, and then, heh, well. You do have first hand experience.” He rearranged his hand in mine. “I suppose you wished that you had not let me stop you… stop you from leaving yester-day.”

“Would you have died, then?”

“The bullet would have landed in a far more… critical junction, surely, after they had gotten from me… what they were searching,” Hubert swallowed thickly. “But that is not your only misgiving.”

A scowl dropped a lock of hair over my eye.

“Is it so easy for you to take a life? For me, it is not so,” I said, brushing my view clear again. “This is not the first, you know. There was another, at the surgery – for that is the work I have been doing – who did not survive it. Others that would not live a full life because I could not save them. I am not untouched.”

“To cause, or to fail to prevent are not the same. You know this. But it does not matter. You see yourself as two entities: the man before a ruinous event, and the man after... But von Hrym did not change you. That first day that we met at your father’s home, and you upon a jet black steed, your crimson cloak like a victorious banner upon the wind; I looked into your eyes, and I saw it in you even then. The dark conviction of... a conqueror. Powerful, and righteous.”

“You may revel in the beast, Hubert, and it makes you think that others must as well,” I rebuffed.

“Each day we choose who we are. I am at peace with who I am. Now you must discover the same. You have evolved, but you have not changed,” he recapitulated. “Not since you killed von Hrym. Not since that first day I saw you, and you spoke of your father. For no beast is as cruel as a man with something to protect.”

Hubert seemed satisfied with this exchange and spoke no more despite my insistence. I followed again the steady shift of blue to grey that marked our nearing to Enbarr. A porter passed in the aisle as the first drops of rain painted themselves over the window panes of our temporary haven. With another mile, the forms of buildings emerged, stout houses, then proper towers of brick and mortar, all as the rain fell in blankets, and the view outside became only a mosaic of browns and greys. The train pulled into Central Station at eleven o’clock, the coarse echo of the conductor announcing our arrival, commuters stirring from their seats to slide carriage doors open; but I waited. Hubert gradually woke with the commotion outside, only withdrawing his head from my shoulder once the noise had passed.

I aided him out of the carriage and went to collect our baggage as he waited for me in the aisle. He quite shivered there, deprived of my own warmth, swaying so slightly, and I could not recall another time where his senses were so impaired as this. I took our two bags in one hand, and with the other I closed the carriage door. All that remained on the bench was a small velvet box.

With great care I led Hubert off the train. He huddled with his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, but with the imperative of avoiding attention he walked well enough, maintaining this stoic guise until we had found an unengaged cab. He succumbed, sagging to the bench, the stilts upon which he was hung collapsing graciously. He hissed out an address to me and a series of roads to follow to reach it, of which I relayed to the coachman, promising a guinea extra for its precise execution. The ride was rough and left Hubert very poorly by the time we had reached our destination. I tipped the driver, and carried Hubert past the kerb and over the threshold of a narrow hostel. Hubert hovered at the entrance while I rented a room, but finally, after many exhausting hours and many more miles, Hubert was returned to a bed. I was glad myself, to have a rest, for the exertions since the morning had reignited pains old and new.

Hubert attempted to raise his voice from where he was reclined, and though it was barely a whisper, his eyes were alight with a newfound intensity.

“It will be safe for us here a while. I did not spy the duchess’ roughs as we came.”

“How long?”

“More than a week... less than three. She will predict a journey to the Alliance through Myrddin. She would ensnare me there, or at Dunnrin of which her and I have spoken before. We know each other very well. That is my advantage. Still, we must act quickly. The crest I was seeking in Sulevis, a man named Cichol was meant to have it. I found him... but the crest was not forthcoming. It must be collected at our earliest ability.”

“I would say you are far from able.”

“I have suffered as much, in worse circumstances. Our object now is to... neutralise that crest we do retain. It is an involved process, but I the know the clerk with who you spoke... to be very resourceful.” Hubert extended his hand to me. “The velvet box, if you would.”

I slowly rose from the chair in which I had been sitting.

“I do not have it,” I said. Hubert frowned.

“The box from the nightstand, I told you --”

“And I took it. But I have something to admit: in Sulevis, you bid me go to the telegraph office, and I contacted Duchess Von Hresvelg as you intended, but I did not send your message. Instead, I made an offer: that she would have the crest only if she vowed my and your continued safety from her and her consort. She instructed me to leave the crest in the train carriage as we returned to the city. So you see, I do not have it.”

During this time that I spoke, Hubert had turned his pale face away from me, and now lay in cold silence. He maintained this manner for so long that I called out his name in concern.

“Even as a child,” Hubert intoned, “I held trust for no one. Over the years I had thought to amend that sentiment. But it was a mistake.” I might have said something against this, but he went on, facing me now. “Do you know… how it is that I have lived so long, given my work?” and he said this, not with the anger of a lesser man, but with the calm and subtle threat of one completely sure in his convictions, “Anyone who ever thought to go against me... or Duchess Von Hresvelg – I ensured that they would never have the luxury of thinking, again.”

“Do not dare threaten me,” I began slowly, gaining severity with every word, “even more so when you are in no state to defend those words. Saving your life was such a betrayal in the face of all you have done, I am sure!”

“I maintained no airs about the kind of man I was, from the very beginning. Your mistake was in ever trusting me – not _merely_ undoing my work of the past _five years_!” he hissed, for he could scarcely raise his voice beyond it.

“I will not stand here and face this abuse. You are looking for someone to blame, and blame me, but you are not without fault, and knowing it makes you all the more cruel.”

It was his moment of rebuke, feeling wronged, for he had fallen into some misconception that I was committed to him and his ways, the barriers I had erected going unnoticed by him. It was my intention, after all. I had come, not as the friend, nor the lover, but with only the medical instinct; and he was yet vulnerable to his wounds, but I had long since payed my duty of care to him. I mustered all my repose for this: an agony not averted, but merely postponed. I turned my back on the dark figure in the bed struggling now to rise, and spoke with the conviction of five years.

“ _Good-bye_ , Mr. Vestra.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have rearranged some things and slightly changed one line but the poem is: The Ballad of Reading Gaol by Oscar Wilde, if anyone was still unsure about whether I was a fan of his work. I considered writing something original, but nothing I wrote could fit so perfectly as the line "For he who lives more lives than one, more deaths than one must die".
> 
> I tried to make this chapter not read like the giant infodump it would invariably be. Did I succeed? Well. I've read it so many times I've completely lost all scope of reference.


	8. The SS Augaum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really shouldn't sit on chapters for so long like this, I can't even tell if the writing is any good anymore, but Pathologic 2 had hijacked all higher thought processes until recently. Also started and completed a crochet project.... but there's nothing else to distract me now. Probably. The plan was to finish this fic before year end. (Don't hold me to that.)

I pulled a key from my pocket, cold wet hand struggling at the open seam before landing upon metal. A heavy raindrop fell from the eaves onto my shoulder as I stabbed the key into the lock. I swung the door open, but closed it softly behind me. With a dull thud I fell back onto it, and the incessant hush of rain was met with the crackle of a fire in the hearth. Across the study at the writing desk sat a small figure hunched over a sheaf of papers, in rapt concentration. I sighed and walked over, calling her name. She seemed not to hear me, too preoccupied in her task.

“Bernadetta?” I said again, sitting down in the chair at her elbow. She startled with a squeak, pen scratching a long arc across her page.

“Ferdinand!--”

“--oh dear, I tried not to sneak up--”

“--I kept wondering when you would be back,” she turned in the chair towards me, “How is your friend? Is she all right?”

“She is,” I faltered, “She – Miss Edmund – she caught a severe case of influenza and, well, she has ever been the pessimist… But she is all right now.”

“Thank goodness. And it was good to see her again?”

I mustered a small smile, taking her hand and running my thumb over the silver band on her finger.

“I have brought something for you,” I replied.

“You have? You shouldn’t have...”

“Nonsense.” I took the wrapped parcel from my bag and placed it in her hands. She flipped it, gave it a delicate shake, then rapped a knuckle over the front.

“A book...” she speculated over the sound of tearing paper. “Oh, it’s lovely,” she crooned, running adoring fingers over the supple leather of the journal. “It’s too nice to write in, really. Oh, my.” She beamed up at me. “Thank you, Ferdinand.”

“But I insist you write something. Shall I give you some ideas? A short story… or poetry. I should so love to read a sonnet from you, dear. Or a daily journal, if nothing else. I am sure you have much to write about your recent trip.”

“You already know it was just a weekend sightseeing with Galatea and the others. What could I tell you?”

“The food, the scenery, and the company? Perhaps you went for a swim – though it would be getting chill for that,” I reconsidered, hand to my chin. “But do not tell me that you enjoyed all the splendours of the Guild Lodge without putting any of the local flora to paper.”

“Oh, I did, actually,” she said with a blooming smile. “Would you like to see them?”

“You know I always do.”

“A case of sepsis of the liver at Le Bris, but the family insisted he be brought to Wispal Hospital. Who do you suppose they’re friends with, eh? But it may have really killed him, all that travel. There’s only to wait and see, I suppose.”

“They have finally secured Ruadán?”

“Isn’t that what they’re saying? It’s only up from here.”

“The war is all but done. Despite Buchan’s ingenious little wyvern monsters, he’s at his end. What’s there to gain anymore? Both sides have only to lose. Let them withdraw their forces so we can all lick our wounds and go back to waging war like civilised countries: with assassinations and tariffs.”

“Well, Noske, that’s one way to put it,” said Sattler ruefully, emptying his stein. “But that is the last for me. An early morning to-morrow.”

“We can’t all make away to the countryside for a week or so, unlike some lucky bastards, eh?” Noske interjected.

“I am very lucky to have a fellow so dependable and trustworthy as Quintas, yes,” I said with a beatific smile.

“Right,” said Sattler, pushing away from the table. “Ring me again. I would not be against another night like this. Next week?”

“Next week,” affirmed Quintas.

We made for the exit as a group, then Sattler and Noske going their separate ways. I waited with Quintas for a cab by the side of the street, a sharp wind cutting through the lingering warmth of spirits and humid inside air.

“Sorry about Noske,” Quintas said in a tight voice, “he can be a bit rough, but well… I don’t mind him myself, though I reckon he is not your sort.”

“I… could not disagree with you. But between uncouth and deliberately malicious, I would choose the former."

“Briancourt and the usual suspects are planning a reunion, I hear. For new year. I will see you there?”

“I hope so,” I smiled.

“All right, then.” Quintas looked up to the quickly approaching hansom down the street. “You’re sure you won’t take this one with me?”

“It is a long way home when you must go to the other side of the city first. I will not keep you.”

“You’ll be tired of that chivalry one day,” he said, quirking a brow. “Have a good night, Von Aegir.”

“And yourself."

I meant to wait for a cab myself, but found my feet taking me down to the end of the street, clubs along the way slowly emptying, patrons trickling out from gaslit passages. I took a deep lungful of air, and out again, a long white trail of vapour wafting up and away. I moved purposefully towards home, fingertips beginning to sting, for my gloves were inadequately thin, my gaze held strong upon the middle distance but wantonly drifting upwards to the place where I thought the stars should be. Not even the sliver of moon emerged from the smog. I followed instinct, turning an intersection by whim: not the street signs, but that wrought iron fence that meant left, the Ohly Tanners storefront that meant right, and the crack in the pavement that meant home only a few doors down. I slipped into the golden light of 95 Feathers Down Lane and there was Bernadetta tucked into the corner of the study with a book and wool blanket.

“Ferdinand, welcome back. Oh, there was a letter for you, I put it on the table there.” I craned my neck down and to the left to the narrow table by the front door where a thick envelope lay in wait. “It didn’t have the name of the sender, so I was a bit – oh, maybe be careful with it?” she said meekly.

I flipped the offending envelope over, but it was just my name. My name in a familiar tight crawling hand. Bernadetta was right that I should be careful of it, but for more reasons than she knew.

“Just as well,” I said, spinning to face her, letting the envelope slip from my fingers to settle on the table once again, “I am going to turn in for the night. Do you plan on being long?”

She buried her nose further into the book.

“Um, yes. Just one more chapter.”

I walked over to kiss her forehead and she leaned into the touch but was otherwise enraptured.

“Good night.”

On the way upstairs I passed the envelope again. I picked it up silently, slipped my thumb under the black seal of wax, and its contents flew forth. Several sheets of paper with a web of text, perfect lines of dried ink, and a crudely stamped coin. I unfolded the long letter and settled myself in the bedroom. By the light of the oil lamp I read the first line. And then another.

My dearest Ferdinand von Aegir,

How does one begin to make amends with only words to work the effort that years of action should have. I regret our old parting, and our newest dearly. I shall not begin to make excuses, but only attempt to right my wrongs in the method best known to me: through stating facts. If you feel so strongly against me that you could not bear to hear me even in a letter, then I beg you burn it, and never let it cross your mind. Let me be lost once again to the past. But if you have any lingering curiosity, or perhaps still value me in any way, then take care in reading what I have written.

I put the pages down, set them in my bedside drawer. I prepared for bed as all other nights. I slipped under the cool blankets and fell asleep.

“Tell me, was he real? In the end?”

“But that is a thing, I think, you must find for yourself,” said Gloucester.

“Surely you have an opinion for writing it, after all?”

He paused a moment, giving the impression that he had heard me ask before, that he was disappointed in the direction this conversation would take.

“What do you think of it?” he asked.

“Well, I think he must have been. He was able to affect his surroundings, yes? Matis could feel his warmth and his affection. One does not need much difficulty to swiftly disappear, especially one so secretive as him. And Matis was so blinded, besides, by his well-meaning, by his love. What is a ghost of flesh and bone and intent if not a man?”

Gloucester tipped his head up to the dark gray sky, the heavy drops of rain plunging earthward only just diverted from the plane of his cheeks by the narrow portico.

“He awoke from the stranger’s dream as a reluctant sleeper,” said Gloucester, “to find the real world lacking. So really, you see, it is not about real or not, whether the neighbour was ghost or human, but Matis’ realisation that the two worlds could not coexist.”

“Surely you do not think so poorly of the world: the life we wish to inhabit against the one that we must. But love was made for us, too.”

“I like to think that I do not, but for our weary sort, often it is difficult to accept that good things are not only for other people, in the next life. But that was the story we wished to tell, regardless. Is this,” he gestured around, “the one you wished to tell?”

“I do not know...”

“Do you remember this conversation that we had?” He turned away, his voice flat and quick. “You were not so persistent then.”

“I could no longer be satisfied in vague approximations. The world demands answers of me that I--”

I awoke to a loud banging, Bernadetta shocking to wakefulness next to me.

“Oh, no,” she whimpered.

Immediately a righteous temper flooded my chest, an instant of confusion overcome by recognition.

“Stay there, dear. I will handle this.”

She gripped my hand and mustered a weak smile but said nothing. The raucous knocking continued as I left the bedchamber, drawing the door close behind me. I steeled myself before pulling open the front entrance. I nearly had a fist in my face, for the offending visitor had prepared for another round of incensed racket.

“Count Varley,” I growled to the man through iron jaw, “what is your business here to-day?”

“She is here, isn’t she?”

“She is indisposed at the moment--”

“I suppose you find it very amusing,” said Varley, menacing forward,” stealing away my daughter.”

“I assure you, sir, she is here of her own free will.”

“She has become delinquent. About the city at all hours, unattended, disappearing for days to a man’s house. It isn’t proper. She could not wait a few months before f--”

“ _You may be her father_ ,” I barked, raising my voice, “but I am her _fiancée_. She has just as much right to be here as I. You, sir, on the other hand, are just as unwelcome here as you were the last time you decided to darken my door, with your threats of violence. I greatly find myself above such things but would not hesitate to make an exception for you. Unless you prefer the proper authorities? What would your peers think of it? You do seem to care very much for them – more than the happiness and well-being of Bernadetta!”

“Next time you--”

“Next time! I have no interest in your next times, your demands, your ransoms! There is nothing we need nor want from you!” I recognised a mist to his brow, a ruddiness of his cheeks that went beyond a mere quarrel in the street. There was something else that helped fuel this paroxysm of rage. I suppose he thought to come here on the hope of an easier target. “You are very persistent, but it is no credit to your character. Next time I think you will not find me so obliging.”

I slammed the door right in his face, but quickly he seemed to have left, for it remained quiet on the other side. I sighed loudly to myself.

“Oh, Bernadetta!” I startled, taking notice of her upon the stair. “I am so sorry. I fear I have made trouble for you. Would you stay a few days? As long as you please. It would put me at ease to know you were nowhere near the same house as that awful man.”

“No, don’t apologise!” Her hands balled up to her chest, nervously flexing. “Nothing is your fault. I’ll be fine. I was – you don’t mind me staying overlong?”

“Of course not, my dear, why would I? I intend to spend the rest of my days with you, after all,” I said, walking over to her.

She paused, looking every way that was not my own.

“Are you very sure? I know you don’t – we’re not…,” she wrung her hands together. “...We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“The best of friends.”

At once, it was relief and disappointment that painted her face. Only as she suggested breakfast and I set the kettle to boil did that self-possessed melancholy dissolve into her customary energetic manner. We sat down together and spoke over eggs and toast.

“How fares the _Encyclopaedia of Brionac Flora_?” I inquired.

“Well,” she responded around a mouthful of marmalade and rye, “but I was tiring of drawing diagrams so I started work on something else.”

“Oh? What is it about?”

“Um, I wanted it to be a detective story. I was inspired by the stories of your old friend that you have shared with me on occasion. Particularly that one concerning the wife and husband that, um, that set fire to the hotel. The Norath Hotel – because they were offended by the manager,” she said sheepishly.

“Oh. Yes.” I looked down at my plate, very occupied in carving a mouthful of scrambled egg. “They were quite dastardly, I recall.”

“I thought there was a bit of whimsy to them. And the close of the case was very straightforward, but I was thinking, what if only the husband had been apprehended? And while awaiting judgement in his cell, he is told by the jailer that the wife had taken her life in an attempt to escape the authorities. So overwrought with despair that he is, he takes his own life there, hanging himself by his belt. But in truth she had lived, and her apparent suicide was only a blind so that she could come and spring him with greater ease. She goes to the constabulary in disguise only to be told that the man she is looking for had died several days ago. She leaves heartbroken, never to be seen again.”

“It is,” I stared, stymied, “a bit more morbid that way.”

“Is it? I thought that it was more interesting. Oh, no, it is really dreadful, isn’t it?”

“No, please! Do not sabotage your artistic vision for my sake. I think it would be good to change it. There is a sense of catharsis in tragedy.” Like the glint of a revolver. I looked away at the thought. “I – it is a drama fit for the stage.”

“It never would have crossed my mind if not for your stories.” She moved to take another bite of toast, but faltered. “I always thought, that it was difficult for you. Something told me that those stories were hard to tell, even though you never refused to, never let on. And, and you never did tell me whatever happened to him, your friend. Which – don't feel like you have to. I know that I’m overstepping. I shouldn't have written any stories about his and your cases after all.”

“My answer has not changed since the first you asked to write of him. It is… I prefer to remember him that way, as he was.”

Her eyes widened to great white disks, but she nodded dolefully, as that of a distant mourner. I felt that I had misspoke and she had interpreted my words in the most common fashion, but I was not compelled to correct this miscommunication. It mattered little either way.

That fated night not so long ago, you heard only a superficial examination of my travels, of my effort to dispose of the crests. It was not to mislead you nor to omit some wrong-doing, but because I saw no use in such extraneous detail. But now that you have gone, I cannot help but think that there may be something to it, after all. And now may you read the whole of it.

It was the twentieth of the Verdant Moon, and Sylvain Gautier was found in South Harbour. I knew him to be no common thief. Surprised though I was to hear of his death, I had already suspected the cause: his aquatic convalescence arranged by the duchess and carried out by the same woman that had stolen from Hevring; Ladislava, whom I would soon come to dispatch, recovering said crest from her, and another from yourself.

After this unfortunate altercation, I went immediately to the Boreas Club where I knew Duchess Von Hresvelg’s collection of crests to be hidden. As far as she was concerned, they were secure – from myself as well, having kept secret a third, final, lock on the cabinet that contained them. Or so she believed. With a copy of the key forged beforehand, I secured the large case in which all were kept. I knew the Boreas and its inhabitants as well as a veteran coachman knows the back alleys of Enbarr, and so I found myself outside with my catch undetected in quick order. After a stop at Orchard Street, I engaged a special and so swiftly escaped the city. I headed to the Boramas, the nearest harbour that was not Enbarr, (for the duchess has strong ties with the Enbarr harbourmasters, and that to fly from this city in such a way was to assure my capture), and found a charter to Morfis. The city of Somnus welcomed me as all anonymous travellers: with a benevolent disinterest. After months of agonising over a perfect execution, how easy, in the end, it had been to evade Duchess Von Hresvelg.

I took up rooms in the city, a matchbox place in all regards, walls bare brick, and stone floor. Here I tested the first crest, a silver targe, likely of the first century. The journal suggested disruption of a crest was most effective through the application of ‘strong heavenly forces’, eventually implying lightning, I surmised, in it’s archaic phrasings. What barbaric times did humans suffer in the past, to wait for storms and the hand of gods. I found my own method of generating current, applying it to the crest, but as you may recall, it was an imperfect resolution. There was a small eruption of light and heat from it, nearly vapourising as though constituted of only a chromatic oxide. I had a hacking cough for several hours that grew to fatigue and dizziness. I felt my whole body was being minced and hollowed out. The journal had listed such effects. I hoped it to mean that the author had survived these symptoms for themselves, for I felt close to death for many days, fearing that my quest was to be so soon brought to an end. After nearly a fortnight, I finally recovered.

I left the city as quickly as I could, I had taken a great risk in lingering so long, and went to Röos next, no intent beyond being somewhere further away. In this town, however, I met a woman who claimed to have seen her father in the market that day; only remarkable, of course, as the father had been dead for many years. There were various explanations for this: a stranger with an uncanny resemblance, a faulty memory, or that he had simulated his death for any mundane reason. But it was the small detail of a gold bangle he always wore and with a singular insignia etched into it that would capture my concern. I asked after the man’s whereabouts under the pretext that his daughter had hired me to attempt to arrange a meeting. Learning that he had already moved on to the next town, I followed, eventually finding him at a local alehouse.

His hair was long, black, tied away. His eyes the depth of a black ocean, centuries of battle condensed into one weary man, like a Kyphon that had seen so much war that even he had had too much. He drank himself to oblivion, and I took the bangle. I knew not all my endeavours would be so facile, but I had all my life to accomplish them.

“Curse this infernal machine.”

“Well, I had not taken you for a seamstress,” I observed.

“Oh,” mumbled Arnault, “this is far from the first time I have been volunteered for the job. But familiarity really does breed contempt, as far as these machines and I are concerned.” She pulled erratically at the bundled hem of a shirt, snipping with ill intent at the knot of thread that secured it to the sewing machine. “There really becomes nothing more frustrating than the most innocuous of inconveniences.” She looked over her shoulder to me. “But you’re not such a sad sight as I thought you might be, yourself.”

“I can muster a simple stitch or two, but it is Bernadetta that has all the talent for it. A shame she could not join us.”

Arnault’s work came free, and she came over to the settee upon which I was sitting, collapsing to the floor where was arranged all manner of fabrics and notions, skirts in a fan all about her.

“I hardly meant to steal your whole afternoon – which thank you, by the by – and she’s been very busy with her latest encyclopaedia, I take it?” Arnault asked, plucking a needle from the pin cushion on the floor. “She’s always been like that. Once Bernadetta’s started on something, she’s indistractible.”

“Often I forget that you have known her for longer than I.”

“No need to be jealous,” Arnault chimed mirthfully. “Now, there’s no need for that sour face, it was a little jape. You had something you wanted to say?”

“It was just – I could not recall if you had ever told me how you two had met?”

“Same as you: a mutual friend. You remember Yuri? Well, he was a servant in the Varley household when he was a boy and became friends that way.” A sigh escaped her lips. “I always thought that the world would grow larger as I aged, but I am finding that it grows smaller and smaller,” she said, but it was not in a wholly happy way, her brows knit in concentration over her lines of stitching. I refocused on my own work attaching a string of beads to the belt of a cloak.

“I could not help but wonder,” I said after a quiet moment, “what it means when a slew of new costumes must be put together that even the performers are to chip in.”

“It means just what that glimmer in your eye implies it must. These were fitted only yester-day in preparation for a new performance,” she grinned up at me. “I’m strictly forbidden from telling anyone before the premier, so do not turn that limpid gaze in my direction, you shall have nothing from me.”

“But you do not appear very excited? I would say apprehensive more than anything else.”

“It is meant to be a very formidable affair; the most significant role I have played to date, and the effort of many years,” she said with a nervous gesticulation. “All this careful planning but now that the time has finally come – ouch!” In her bluster, Arnault had pricked a finger on her work. She took a moment to carefully inspect her index before throwing her hands down in a huff. She disentangled her skirts and stood. “These costumes won’t even have a chance to be used, I’m sure,” she sighed, going to a cabinet for a tin of tea.

“I’m sure it will go just as intended. When is opening night? I should love to see it.”

“It is on the 27th.”

“There is some time still, then.”

“Three weeks I wouldn’t say is very long,” said Arnault looking askance at me, and filling a kettle with water.

“It is that quick already?” I dropped my hands to my lap, and looked out the window a moment as though the light might apprise me of to-day’s date. “It feels only a handful of days that I had returned to the city….”

“I marvel to think how you have been keeping all your appointments up to now.” She measured a teaspoon of leaves into a round ceramic teapot, a beguiling and delicate rustling. I pulled the needle through on my last stitch and tied off the end.

“I merely… go as I am needed.”

From the corner of my vision I could see Arnault examining me. She leaned a hand over the counter.

“You have been well, Ferdinand?”

“Quite well,” I blinked. “What makes you ask?”

“You have been a little… I don’t know,” she sighed through her nose. I began to fold the cloth belt up over my legs, slowly smoothing out the corners, trying not to read her expression too closely. “I always thought you were very easy to read. I don’t mean anything by it – the way I grew up with enough duplicitous people to last a lifetime, I could never offend your candid, outward nature; but I just wonder who broke you out of the habit.”

She sat there, a grey spectre by the light of the window.

“Imagine, to chance upon your lost son of so many years, only to tell him that you must leave at the soonest convenience,” I seethed, threatening to spring from my seat despite knowing that there was nowhere I could go. “Why? The goddess has seen it that my mother should be brought back to life; what could keep you from me but the goddess herself?”

"We were not meant to meet like this, not ever perhaps,” she said.

“Then why did you leave me? What horrid thing had my father done?!”

"I have hurt you so dearly, my boy, I cannot tell you, for it would break your heart. Please forgive me. It was the most painful thing in the world to leave you, but I do not regret it. For all the suffering, any other choice would have been worse, I truly believe that. Hate me, if you must, but I will still love you.”

“I hardly know you anymore.” The words caught in my throat, caught on every tooth as it struggled to be voiced.

“And I… could not claim to know you, my own son. But I want to try, if you will have me. Things change, people most of all. I could never hope for you to be the same carefree boy that you once were. As much as I could try to convince you in one way or another, you make your own choices now. I would not tell you what you should do, in any case. I surrendered all rights to that years ago.”

“You and he are just the same,” I said, my voice echoing dully back to me. “I have no need of you any longer.”

“Do you only function on need? Is it usefulness that drives you? No. What need is there for the sweet aroma of a well-brewed tea, of candid smiles. Of the city seen from atop its highest tower, and of all the things you cherish? If not for the fact that you live for love. You do not need us to live this life you have made, but you could not abandon us in our cruelty, no matter the cost to yourself. Need is a basic feeling. You operate on higher ideals. Crafted, lofty things. You do not need us, but there is something you want from us. You must take it. We will give it to you.”

“I do not know if I could forgive you.”

“You do not need to forgive me. Some things cannot be forgiven.”

The ambient murmur of other people in the room rose to my ears, but in my mind there still remained only the two of us. The teacup before me was emptied, tea leaves like black grains of sand spilled into the bottom. I pretended that I could forge some kind of prophetic meaning from their placement, but no patterns emerged.

“There was something else,” I said flatly. “I did not ask. You did not say anything of it to me at the time. It only occurred after you had vanished down the street again. If I had asked, would you have told me the truth?” She spun the teacup around in her cupped hands. “My sister. You know where she is.”

She looked truly ashamed, I thought, finally. No fear in admitting those life-altering lies but struck at this old and cherished one. A secret more fundamental to her soul. As though one more betrayal mattered, as if she might save face by keeping this buried away. The look in her eyes told me all I needed to know.

“I think I should go,” I said.

The old sailor I met during the Von Ochs affair, he had shared with me other things: besides the journal, there were sightings of the beasts, of which were to guide me for the next five years. After Röos, those tales brought me to a small island off the northern coast of Prairon Vale. It was a sea of palms in the white sands, more colour than I had seen in months, a labyrinth of erupting blossoms. I passed much time there searching for evidence of a beast while studying under an old medicine woman. Her knowledge of the local deadly flora and its medicinal applications were invaluable in bolstering even my own considerable knowledge.

With time, I was to find and dispatch the beast, the second such creature I had laid my eyes upon, but this time sandy brown with a dead gaze to match. I wondered how it had been as a human, how it had come into this change. By their own will, or against it? I searched for many days for a thing resembling a crest, but in the ruins of abandoned buildings or in the sparse forest, I could find nothing. There was no guarantee that a crest should be nearby, that it should not take months or years to find one buried in the sand.

I took a hand at dissecting the beast, hoping to gain some knowledge of weakness that could be exploited in future encounters. In its belly, fused to the stomach lining, there was a polished stone with a mark on it like a ram’s head, a star upon its crown. Here was the crest at last. I theorised that the human had unknowingly ingested it, perhaps by its supernatural nature the stone had quickly adhered itself securely within, and the usually neutral crest had begun to degrade with contact to the stomach acids. So I found that they were a more precarious object than I had previously believed. I must take even more care with them moving forward.

I bid farewell to my companion of the past two months, for we had found a respectable arrangement, but I had not come for my amusement. It was several months later, the seasons returning to sweltering heat that I arrived in Nineveh at the call of another crest. I had recently reduced my present burden from five to four, the affliction of the crests rendering me greatly impaired, and so was once again vulnerable, though not as severely as the first. And I had only finished three of them in total – a glacial pace – but my constitution could not support anything more strenuous. More than this, I was unfortunately not the only one in search of crests.

A Nineveh nobleman and self-proclaimed treasure-hunter, after searching for knowledgeable voices, approached me; and finding that I had no interest in aiding him, surmised that if he would not have my expertise, he would have my neck. But anticipating a frail scholar as he was, his retinue of two were simple to dispatch. He begged for his life with information and great sums of money, asserting that there were a limited number of crests, of which fell into three categories: that of the Ten Elites; that of the Four Saints; and that of the Four Apostles, the most elusive of the eighteen. He himself suspected that the nearby crest was that of St. Macuil, for, among other things, in this place was a church dedicated to the saint, a rarity in the country, outside of the larger and more diverse metropolis.

Everything he knew, he foolishly told me on the spot, and the money, though a boon to my search, was ultimately not worth the risk of putting any level of trust in the man. I availed myself of his pockets instead, and merely that was a hefty sum in comparison to my current mode. I set out for Ninos, of which he had spoken, the very next day, a poor borough to the east of the city. I visited the church. It was old and crumbling, clearly neglected, but only within the last decade perhaps. The only soul there was an ancient pastor. I inquired about the state of decay, the missing pews and sconces. He described them as the remnants of the church that had had any value, sold in an attempt to prolong services as long as possible. There was an alcove set in the far wall where clearly something of significance had been displayed, of which I asked after.

“It was a goblet,” he said, “used in services, one of the last things to go, despite its worth.”

“Did it have any symbol carved in it,” I asked.

“Yes, the crest of St. Macuil. But very few knew of it after such iconography was banned in the 1400s for its... nemetic associations. Such things are quite unknown within Fôdlan.”

“I have a special interest. I have travelled very far to learn just of this subject. It would greatly benefit me if I could examine the goblet in person.”

Proceeding a long and drawn out conversation, he finally revealed to whom he had sold the goblet. It had gone in a lot to a merchant in a town nearby. He had then in turn sold it to a jeweller known for re-purposing old metal for his works. But when I arrived at the jeweller’s, I discovered that he had already cast it into a new collection which he vehemently attempted to convince me to buy. Seeing as he was alive and well, and that he had made no remark on his materials, I knew that the goblet could not have been the crest, this whole convoluted chase, fruitless.

I returned to Ninos once more to interview the pastor. I told him of the fate of the goblet, if he had another inscribed item I might examine, and he directed me to an establishment in town that dealt with used objects and bric-a-brac. Beyond this he knew not where the rest had gone. I went, knowing that if this clue led to nothing, that failure was the only conclusion.

The shop was small, wares arranged in haphazard piles, dim and crowded. I made a cursory glance over the whole, and failing to find my mark, I applied to the man behind a glass display. After much struggle he pulled a cardboard box from the bottom of a stack, and drew three brass candelabras from it, each with the crest of Macuil. I took them all, making the necessary precautions three times before I finally identified the last as the crest.

That was to be my last success in a long line of failures, all quite tedious tales to undergo, even more so to relay. I had returned to Fôdlan however, across the Locket and through to Ailell. The Kingdom was cold and unforgiving. Many a time did I wish to return to the temperates of southern Adrestia, over three years since gone from Enbarr, in a constant state of alert, chasing stories and hearsay. Duchess Von Hresvelg had lost me again near the Sreng border, so I felt more confident in settling in Rome for a while.

I found rooms with a tiny window overlooking the entrance to the Place du Lion. There stood a marble monument of Loog as he cradled Kyphon who had taken a mortal blow intended for himself – as occurred in the Sword of Kyphon, I recalled, though from where or which memory, I was not sure. I thought that it must have been your own, recited to me in a fit of operatic passion.

_Loog with Areadhbar slays the crimson hordes_  
_Bright crown and bright eyes above duelling swords_  
_By noble thrust met in equal force proved_  
_No grim imperial might cast him low_  
_Down to dark halls and beyond life’s last door_  
_Thus readily with poisoned blade one goes_  
_To end the reign of king not yet bestowed_

_Kyphon abreast, great danger apprehends_  
_Where he fights he spies the king’s near death_  
_‘Fore the blade he lunges to shield his friend_  
_A mortal strike he takes without resent_

_Loog turns to see his dear companion pale_  
_Not ‘fore assailant aground he lay_  
_A strike right down through teeth and tongue is slain_  
_A stream of blood o’er Kyphon’s chest makes haste_  
_Loog catches Kyphon into his embrace_  
_And says: what carelessness of mine you pay_  
_Our passions opposed, but to part this way_  
_Is to lose my soul, though my life remain_

The novel adaptation, you argued, was a farce, a soulless undermining of Kyphon’s sacrifice in an attempt to save him the indignity of being wounded. A sacrifice, instead, to the noble concept of the death of the companion, one that was to be cleverly subverted before the conclusion of the play. You were supremely enchanting in that moment: all your diligence and ardour, all your graceful flowing limbs. How sweet the voice from sweet lips flew forth, meant for stages and grand production, but for now only mine. How easily such words of adoration spring from ancient mouths, when in the living they fall too late.

It was a long year that I remained in the Kingdom, travelling here and there but always returning to Rome: a hostel by the Taranis, a room at Belle Pharsa Grand, again at the Place where the King of Lions and his Shield remained in eternal embrace. But I did return to Adrestia, at last, eight crests put away, and a ninth in my hands with which I could not yet part. I crossed over through Garreg Mach, that fortress in the Ogmas, chasing another thin thread, until I arrived at Sulevis, where events progressed as you know them.

I bounded down from the cab and Bernadetta passed a folded bundle of hemmed costumes down to me.

“I hope she finds them all right,” she fretted.

“I am sure she is very confident in your capabilities, my dear. Now, I will not be long.”

I hurried through the foyer of Arnault’s building and up to her floor, but after a knock and several minutes I surmised that she must not be in, for she was certainly expecting me well enough that she would know to listen for a visitor. I returned to the street-side perplexed.

“What’s wrong?” inquired Bernadetta as I regained the cab. “You couldn’t convince Arnault to come?”

“She was not there at all.”

“You don’t think something has happened to her?” she squeaked.

“Do not fret,” I said, signalling the coachman to continue on to our destination, “I am sure she has been very busy at the Mittelfrank of late. It is nearly early by theatre standards. We will have to be just the two of us to-night.”

We arrived at a small restaurant in the area that Arnault had introduced us to previously, and that we had all adored. We were led to a booth near the back, safe from the chill of open doors, and settled in with our menus.

“How do you suppose the pike tastes?” asked Bernadetta after a moment of consideration.

“Why do you not try ordering it?” I suggested. “If it is half as good as the pheasant, you cannot make a wrong choice.”

“I think, um, I will just have the same as the last time,” and she slid her menu off to the end of the table.

We began to catch up on the last few days and our respective work. Bernadetta put on a brave face as I recounted an unfortunate patient from the surgery but I knew she had little stomach for it, especially in the current climate. We were both better to move on to other things.

“I asked Macneary if she would be the one to translate _Brionac Flora_ some time ago, you remember?” inquired Bernadetta, “And she is so quick with her work. She has already the first twelve chapters that, surely she’ll be finished before I could draw a half-dozen illustrations. She’s been working very closely with me and I – I have been wanting to tell her how grateful I am for all she’s done. She is still loath to propose her new project to Diamant, but I told her that, that no reasonable man should deny her.”

“She is still facing trouble?”

“With Andras and Kornell. She avoids the offices more lately. She calls it a nice vacation being able to work in the comfort of her home, and she seems unbothered, but she isn’t really one to air her problems. Oh. She was so glad to tell me the other day that her parents may finally be able to join her in Enbarr.”

“That is delightful news! A cause for celebration.”

“She has already invited us for a feast, whenever it may come. She says there will be all her friends and family there, and very lively and loud... and crowded,” Bernadetta chuckled darkly, a pall casting over her features.

“I am sure she would understand, no matter how you chose to go or stay. Though of course, it would be grand to have you to come along.”

“I would like to go. I will go. I speak it into existence,” she said with growing confidence.

“We speak it together,” I smiled.

We passed the rest of the evening amicably, though surely there was a trace of unease in Bernadetta as we boarded a cab homewards that manifested as a nervous shifting in her seat. I waited for her to share with me her concerns, but already we had returned to Feathers Down Lane and she had said nothing. We alighted at the front door, and before I unlocked it, I turned to Bernadetta.

“You have been battling with some turbulent thought since we left the restaurant. Is it Miss Macneary’s party that has you so troubled? You know I would never force you to go.”

“No!” she startled. “I know you never would! Anyhow, that’s – that isn’t what I was thinking.”

“Could you tell me?”

“I could.”

“ _Would_ you tell me?”

“...I would. I was about to, just as we were inside, but you, you interrupted me.”

“My apologies.”

“I know that you mean that in the nicest of ways,” she said as she stared me down, “but if you were anyone else, I would think that you were being facetious.” She crossed her arms over her chest, like she was comforting herself, looking away to the seam of the door. “It’s really the other way round, besides.”

“How do you mean?”

“It’s merely… things have changed. About you. You, you say the same things, you smile the same way... but the more I think of it now, the more I feel…,” and she looked quite like she was just coming upon the realisation for herself, “I feel I am looking at the reflection. I wonder where you have gone,” whimpered Bernadetta, wide eyes growing dewy.

“That is preposterous, I --” I said haltingly. “No, I do not mean to worry you so. Come inside now,” ushering her through the entrance, “the cold does you no good.” I shut the door and it was quiet inside. “You would go on without me anyhow. You are strong, much stronger than you believe,” I said without thinking.

“Now you sound as though you are dying,” hiccoughed Bernadetta.

“Oh dear, that is really not the case,” I bleated.

“I know,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, but I worry for you. All these years you have been so good, even through the work you do at the hospital, even through my father; beyond your accident five years ago, you did not falter. There are things you will not tell me. I wish to help you, help you as you have helped me. You have been so good to me.”

I could have assuaged her concern with soft words, but it would have been a lie, I quickly came to understand. Like I had become an unwitting actor in the play of my own life, a role I had not perfectly fallen back in to.

“There is something…,” I said reluctantly. “You know I am not one to dream, or perhaps that I merely cannot recall them; but recently I have done nothing but dream.”

“What… what do you see?”

“It is the past, always. Conversations I have had or wished to have had. Things that have happened... and things I have done. Each time I close my eyes I dread a nightmare, but rather than fear or guilt or any dark thing, it is only – it is rather a longing feeling,” I confessed. “I,” and she looked up to me with concerned grey eyes, “I feel I am waiting to be haunted by my evil deeds.”

“Oh, Ferdinand,” she sighed sombrely, taking my hands in hers. “What great evil could you do? The most noble and kind man I know. I think I know – I feel it, too, sometimes. But were you not the one who told me? That I am stronger than these fears, these accusing thoughts. That we are unfair with ourselves most of all? Those things that happened to you, they were not your fault.”

Bernadetta drew me into her arms, head upon my chest, and held me tight. And she did not understand, and I did not deserve her benediction. She could not know my sins, the most genuine and severe; ones that I carried with no crooked back nor heavy head. The lack of such, frightening me most of all. And what sort of man did that make me, then?

I arrived by hansom at Valencourt. In all the years, I had never returned here, nor had reason to. It was all very much the same as I remembered it: the grey, washed stone; glowing windows framed in dark wood upon the narrow facade; the faces of happy strangers; and I, lingering in the court by that tiny square fountain, gripped by apprehension again. A flash of silver taunted from between the fingers of my tightly clenched fist. I swung my arm in a shallow underhand to relinquish the coin. It tumbled momentarily, weightless, before being condemned to shallow waters. I left in a flurry, no time to reconsider nor regret. The little black window of 22 Staraya Carnation Road looked down upon me.

Now that our time apart has been made clearer, I am of a mind to tell you of a further past so you might grasp my loyal connexion to Duchess Von Hresvelg, as well, her own intentions.

As I confided in you previously, my father was butler to the Von Hresvelgs, the duke making special note of my aptitude and discipline; and so I was afforded a few privileges over the other servants. He encouraged my interaction with the youngest daughter (the duchess, as you know her), for she was a very spirited child, and the duke hoped that I might act as a sobering influence. We took to each other quickly: myself dedicated to my future position as head servant of the house; and her out of necessity, perhaps, for her many siblings were all much older, and there were few other girls for which to play.

Even then, the duchess was elegant and assured. She did not hesitate to make use of me. I did not hesitate to aid her. Less and less I would go about the manor for tedious errands, but would follow in her shadow to be applied with the most efficacy. I grew to become loyal, not only to her name, but to herself.

Eventually it came that the Von Hresvelgs were to vacation in Brigid. I bid a reluctant farewell to Edelgard, for I had a grey premonition that day. She assured me otherwise, and they went. The family took the SS Augaum out from South Harbour, a straight shot to Ruadán. They were halfway across the Bressian Sea when one of the Augaum’s boilers exploded. The two eldest Von Hresvelgs were killed in the immediate blast, the others thrown from the ship in varying states of distress, as well as dozens of other passengers and crew. The duke and duchess were enjoying the view of the sunset astern, and did not suffer as their children did. In the ensuing fire, in the panic, critical time was lost, night descending. Some were recovered from the waters, a few bodies as well, but it was assumed after several hours of searching in the pitch of night, that all the Von Hresvelg children had perished in one way or another. The Augaum was refloated with the aid of the SS Fifteen, and resumed her voyage to Ruadán. In the ensuing days, only eleven of the thirty nine thrown overboard were recovered alive.

For Edelgard herself, she had been shielded from the blast by one of her siblings, Helena, and then in turn by Jost, the eldest of the eight. Helena and Edelgard were thrown into the black waters, Helena keeping them both afloat for two days, for Edelgard was a weak swimmer. But Helena grew unresponsive, as she had not come away from the ship unscathed. For two more, Edelgard float in the Bressian Sea before a freighter bound for Brigid found her. She was delirious from dehydration and sickness until they found land again, but was too afraid to reveal who she was, how she had become lost at sea. She escaped them and wandered the docks before stowing away on another vessel back to Enbarr. She arrived in the city and walked unseen through it, like all poor transient souls left bereft of comfort or happiness merely by coincidence of their birth.

The tragedy was not relayed to the manor until a day later. My father would not have told me if I had not pressed him, would be content to sit and wait for his master’s children to be returned in coffins. I left to find Edelgard myself, would chase her to the bottom of the sea if need be, but I was waylaid at the harbour and carted back to the Von Hresvelg manor by my own father’s command. All my concerted effort, all my devoted faith, brought to nothing in the face of locked doors. Weeks passed, and I was permitted freely to the grounds again, deemed no longer at risk of chasing after ghosts.

On the twenty-seventh day after the disaster, the youngest Von Hresvelg stumbled through the gates of the manor, and I saw not the proud Edelgard as she had been, but a tried and bested creature. I nearly wept for the only time in my life as I carried her up in my arms: for how slight she was, and for how I had let such a thing happen, had let my father prevent me from going out to find her. Such was her ordeal as she confided in me. Such is my loyalty to her. For in the months proceeding, I was merely her shadow no longer, but her will in the world.

For all appearances she recovered. It was never something she would dwell upon. The Von Hresvelgs’ inclusion in the incident on the SS Augaum, the loss of their eight children and subsequent return of one, was kept secret, a testament to the family’s influence even as removed from their former power as they were. When Edelgard’s parents finally passed (for they were both well in their years before ever she was born), she sold the ancestral home, accumulating what fortune she could and investing in properties in the city, at great opposition to her uncle. She had a vision for the future, and found the old structures of pedigree and class to be lacking. So she created places like the Boreas where she could make proper use of those fatuous nobles, and brought up from the brink, so many people of talent and merit that would have otherwise languished in impoverishment. And you may think meanly of her or myself, and I will not deny those crucial endeavours that required a devious hand, but no deviousness unknown by those already in power.

Duchess Von Hresvelg’s position in the city was firm until, in 1883, her organisation began to suffer a series of misfortunes. The offending influence was known by the name of Blaiddyd. A vital spy was discovered in a ditch in Hartwig, another vanished without a trace; the duchess’ subsidiaries no longer so coöperative, some verging on antagonistic. I felt that this must have greatly fuelled her interest in the crests, as suspicious of her uncle as she was for his secret of them. Sylvain Gautier was one of Blaiddyd’s, his death a warning and an attempt to draw Blaiddyd out. Even now I am discovering what embattlement she had undergone against Blaiddyd and his cohort while I was away, not at my rightful place by the duchess’ side, but as a trespasser; for though she is no longer in want of my life, the doors of the Boreas remain closed to me, her presence forbidden. So I must resort to my own devices.

There is still the matter of Cichol. It would appear he has vanished from Sulevis, but I am confident, at least, that the duchess has not got him, but rather that he flew of his own good intuition after the discovery of von Hrym and Eisner. I have no clues as to his whereabouts, but it little matters as my wounds still have me greatly laid up, despite the sickness finally abating. Due to my vulnerable position I hesitate in leaving an address to respond to, though I long for it all the same. If ever you should want me to find you, toss the obol into the fountain at Valencourt. Until then,

I remain ever yours,

Hubert von Vestra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere in the process of writing this fic I wanted for Hubert to make a romantic parallel between himself and Ferdie with some ancient couple, a la Patroclus and Achilles. _Hmm, Kyphon and Loog could be this universe's equivalent_ , I thought. And I had it in my foolish head that I would write a whole-ass other fic in poetic verse, just so that I could have Hubert quote from it. Hilarious. But I'm glad that I managed to squeeze something in along that vein.
> 
> This chapter's poem was inspired by D. L. Sayers' translation of The Song of Roland, which is your typical ancient epic poem where whenever a new character is introduced, it has to name his entire family tree and how many cows he has, and so forth and so on. But it had a very helpful introduction that explained concepts like companionage and vassalage, and also how the lines and verses of the poem are constructed. And I may not have followed those rules to the best of my ability, but I certainly followed them to the best of my patience.
> 
> Hubert's letter was inspired by De Profundis, which is summarily circuitous, self indulgent and poetic, though lacking that accusatory stint of the original, of course.


End file.
